


The Prevailing Condition

by JackDalton1992



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alpha Sherlock, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, Angst, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Angst with a Happy Ending, Developing Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Eventual Smut, Humor, Injury, Jealousy, Kidlock, M/M, Mycroft Being Mycroft, Novella, Omega John, Possessive Behavior, Protectiveness, Sexual Content, Slice of Life, Slow Burn, Smut, Teenlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-02
Updated: 2017-02-10
Packaged: 2018-09-14 07:11:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 26,349
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9167761
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JackDalton1992/pseuds/JackDalton1992
Summary: In the summer of their thirteenth year, Sherlock and John learn what it means to grow up as Alpha and Omega in a Beta-centric world.





	1. Roman Candles

**Author's Note:**

> A story that will hopefully achieve a realistic plot around the concept of Omegaverse. This story will start when Sherlock and John are thirteen years old and will progress into their early twenties with a couple time skips thrown in there. Mycroft is eighteen at the start of this story and Mr. and Mrs. Holmes are depicted here as they are depicted in the third series of Sherlock. This story will contain angst and serious content matter, so please be aware. Hope you all enjoy!

 

Crouching behind his father’s blue tool shed, Sherlock carefully surveyed the surrounding territory one last time before quickly signaling at John to cross the field between them.

With one last look at his own area, John rolled out from underneath Mr. Holmes’ Jaguar and made a panic run for Sherlock’s location behind the tool-shed with as much artifice as he could muster.

Falling to his knees next to Sherlock, he rifled through his parcel and tossed the brunette the last package of Roman candles they had to spare.

It was now going on a brutal fourth hour that they had been engaged in this battle, and the sun was just beginning to wane orange behind the poplar trees.  

“Okay, this is what we’re going to do. I’ll run towards him with the candle lit, then you run to the greenhouse and approach him from the rear with a kill-shot to the back. He’ll be so distracted by my firing at him that he will forget your position.” Came the rushed whisper as John took the water bottle from Sherlock and sprayed it sloppily into his mouth. Sherlock, who was panting next to him with wind-swept curls and chapped lips, peered around the edge of the shed to get a proper visual on their targets: their witless schoolmate Davis Boone and his terroristic sixteen-year-old step-brother, Asher Gordon. Together, they were two of the neighborhood’s most repulsive teenagers.

“There has to be something more reliable than that.” Sherlock huffed, carelessly tossing his parcel onto his mother’s bed of summer daffodils. Bringing the unopened package of Roman candles to his mouth, he tore the plastic with his teeth and spit it into the grass.  “Why do you always resort to the Kamikaze mentality? We need to learn to do this with actual strategy instead of smoke and theatrics. They’ll catch on at some point.”

“It doesn’t matter if they catch on. Davis is too scared to take a hit even if he knows he's being set-up.” John explained, this time bending low in front of Sherlock's face and lowering his voice. “Listen, it’s _perfect_. When I approach him with a lit candle, he will only run towards you or towards your mum’s cherry tree because he's afraid of Miss Miskelly's German Shepherd, and your position is good enough that you can shoot him at either of those directions.”

“You’re not accounting for the fact that Asher’s location is unknown. They might be staging a trap, and they have twice as many candles as we do.” Sherlock argued. “Davis might be useless, but Asher’s never been afraid to get hurt or use Davis as a pawn. I haven’t seen him on the East, West, or North side, and we haven't seen him here with us. He’s planning something.”

“It doesn’t matter.” John grinned, eyes lit with the adrenaline of the sport. “I’m faster than Asher and Davis won’t retaliate because he’s chicken shit.”

“And what happens when Asher appears out of nowhere because he suspects that you’ll underestimate Davis? He’s an opportunist, John. He’s sacrificed Davis before, and I have a running theory that it may have always been on purpose to lower our expectations.”

“What 'happens?' I get hit. That’s what happens.” John shrugged with a clear air of nonchalance.

“England is thankful you are not currently fighting on the frontlines.” Sherlock replied dryly, re-adjusting the parcel over his shoulders. “That’s a lot of government money to waste on someone with _zero_ survivability prospects.”

“You do realize that this isn’t an actual war.”

“It might be someday.” Sherlock commented, and if John were less absorbed in the thrill of the game, he might have noticed the undertone of annoyance in Sherlock’s statement. 

It was no secret to anyone involved that John had a long-held desire to enter into the military when he became of age. It was also no secret to anyone that he was largely unsupported in this desire.

“Listen, we still have to get two hits on Ash before we win the game, but only one on Davis. I doubt I can hit Davis when he starts to run from me because he pivots, but you can sabotage him. The second you hit him they’ll lose the game, so Asher may not have time to stage whatever grand scheme you think he has planned.”

“You’re a fool.” Sherlock commented.

“I know. But do you trust me?” John asked with a grin, standing and holding a hand out for Sherlock to grab. Rolling his eyes, Sherlock took hold of John’s hand and readied himself against the coming encounter.

Sliding the Roman candle out of the pack, John held it carefully to the side and brought the lighter to the fuse.

“When I say run, you run.” Came the warning, and Sherlock mentally mapped the shortest path to the greenhouse from their current location.

Counting down silently from three, John snapped the wheel of the lighter and held the flame to the fuse end of the candle. After a calculated second, the fuse burst into flames with a hiss, and Sherlock swiped a hand over a stray spark that sliced his cheek.

“ _Go_.”

And with that, Sherlock was bolting towards the greenhouse as John, in all of his stupid, zealous passion, ran boldly towards Davis in an attempt to scare him into a trap. Dropping to his knees behind the tall grasses of the greenhouse, Sherlock readied his own candle and positioned his thumb on the lighter, waiting for Davis to come towards him or past him.

Much to his satisfaction, he was using a lighter painted with an orange oriental dragon that he had knicked off of Mycroft’s dresser the week before last.

The “Dragon Slayer” is what he called himself.

In response to John’s absolutely ridiculous battle cry, Davis spun around and, upon seeing the sparkling candle pointed at his face, clumsily fumbled with his own lighter and candle before aborting that idea entirely and taking off towards the greenhouse.

Amateur mistake.

Sherlock’s fuse burst with a fizz when he triggered the flame, and as Davis ran full-speed toward the greenhouse to duck for cover from John, Sherlock felt the lurch of the candle as the fireball exited with a heavy “FUHMP” sound.

“The hell!” Davis screeched, abruptly pulling a 180 and backtracking sloppily when he caught sight of Sherlock with his candle stretched towards him. It was too late, however, and Sherlock grinned maliciously as the green fireball burst against Davis’s back with a satisfying pop, sending him sprawling onto the ground with a pained grunt.

"Here be dragons." Sherlock smirked as he stepped forward and approached his victim.

“Hell yes!” Came the distant sound of laughter and applause as John ran towards them, cheeks red and eyes wild. “That’s the third hit on Davis! We win this round!”

“ _Fuck_ you, Watson.” Davis spit as he struggled to get up off of the grass, arm stretched back to desperately pat any possible flames out of his shirt. Much to Sherlock’s satisfaction, a brown burn mark lay smoking just under the edge of his collar, and grass stains marred the boys jeans where he had slid forward. “And fuck you just as much, Holmes. That was cheap.”

“All is fair in love and war.” John gloated. “Or something like that.”

Sherlock snorted as Davis sent them the middle finger from his unfortunate position on the ground.

“Hey, no hard feelings, mate. Just remember this day the next time you want to challenge Soldier John and the Dragon Slayer to a game of East Wind.” John chirped as he squatted in front of Davis with a devilish grin, showcasing a flagrant lack of sportsmanship as he patted him on the cheek. Standing, John surveyed the parameters of the garden and cupped his hands around his mouth. “Hey, Asher! We took down your man! You can come out now!”

The three looked between each other in confusion when they were met with total silence.

"Asher!" John called again. "Game's over, mate!"

"Where is he?" Sherlock asked, glancing down at Davis who still sat pitifully on the ground.

"Dunno. Haven't seen him since the start." He offered, shrugging with a dimwitted frown on his face. "Figured he went home halfway through. Wouldn't be the first time."

True.  

"You play this game with him knowing he'll abandon you?" Sherlock asked, unimpressed with Davis for the nth time that day. "Are you actively  _trying_ to be unfortunate?"

"He's a tyrant, Holmes! You don't know! You don't have to live with the guy."

"Asher, game's over!" John called, growing wary with the lack of response.

"Ash, come on, man!" Davis called with a pitiful whine. "I wanna' go home! We've been doing this shit for hours and Mum's making lasagna tonight!"

Silence.

"I'll see if I can find him." John finally replied, turning to make his way towards the South side of Sherlock's estate. Although the Holmes estate was realistically massive, the boys established parameters when creating the game to avoid the playing field becoming too expansive. "He probably fucked off to raid the fridge, honestly." 

Hearing an abrupt hissing sound coming from above, John turned, squinted into the sunlight, and peered above the greenhouse.

“Ash—?“

Before John could finish that sentence, however, the three watched in shock as a bright red fireball launched from the roof and pelted John in the face with enough brutal force to send him stumbling backwards. With an anguished yelp, John’s hand went to his face as he dropped to the ground, one hand supporting him as he desperately attempted to shield himself from the onslaught of fireballs.

The game was called "East Wind," and upon it's initial creation the year before, three rules were established which they had all unanimously agreed to abide by at all times:

  1. No face shots. Ever. For any reason.
  2. No shots fired from less than twenty feet away.
  3. No shots fired after the game was called.



In that singular moment, all three rules were broken.

“Jesus!” Davis exclaimed, scrambling to his feet as errant fireballs tore through the air. “Asher, stop! Are you fucking _mental_?”

“Still itching to take one for England, Soldier John? One day that’ll be an IED, you manic _tosser_. I’m just preparing you ahead of time since you want to bite a bullet so bad.” Dropping from the roof of the greenhouse with a graceful leap, Asher held his candle out and approached John with his arm raised. "I'll help you look like a real soldier."

Before the candle could fire another round, however, Sherlock found himself wrenching the boy by the collar and into the side of the greenhouse with a thoughtless and vicious fury. Fisting his hands into the boy’s hair, Sherlock began to slam the side of his face into the glass with a brutal, unrelenting rhythm.

“Christ, Holmes! He’s bleeding!”

“Sherlock, stop.” Came John’s pained request, though muttered weakly as he struggled to cope with the blinding pain and shock. “Jesus -- _Sherlock_!”

Nothing registered to Sherlock except for the sounds of skull and hair being crushed into glass and the almost-primal beat of his heart echoing in his ears. Fumbling for the still-firing Roman candle that had been knocked out of Asher’s hand, Sherlock positioned the candle at point-blank range from Asher’s eye and prepared to blow it out of his skull before a hand grasped his wrist, wrenched his arm backwards violently, and shot the last remaining fireball into the air. 

In one quick swipe, the smoking candle was torn from Sherlock's hand and tossed aside.

With strong arms circling his waist, Sherlock was bodily pulled away from Asher Gordon before dealing him one last crippling kick to the solar plexus.

“What the _devil_ is going on here!” Came a sound from the distance, and Sherlock briefly registered the noises of a door shutting and his mother’s voice calling from the French doors at the back of the house. The arms currently holding him back were not aged like his father’s arms, which led Sherlock to believe that Mycroft had arrived home from university at some point in the last half hour.

"Keep laughing, Watson." Asher called, smiling, as he spit blood into the grass. "One day it'll be a bullet, and I bet it won't be so funny anymore."  

“Sherlock, _stop_!” Mycroft bellowed, struggling to pull Sherlock away from the boy. “You could go to prison for this, you _fool_.”

“Pray I never see you again.” Sherlock seethed nefariously, ignoring Mycroft’s inert threats as he leveled Asher with the terror of an absolute _promise_. Fresh blood was spattered on the glass where Sherlock had split the boy’s eyebrow down the middle, and there would surely be the possibility of a concussion if his momentum was calculated correctly.

If nothing else, the kick to the abdomen was brutal enough to have fractured a rib or two.

“What has gotten _into_ you?” Mycroft somewhat screeched, deciding that enough was enough when Sherlock unceremoniously elbowed him in the face in an attempt to get back to Asher.

Although Sherlock was rapidly growing taller, at the age of thirteen he was still no match for Mycroft’s bulkier size and height. Despite Sherlock’s history of outbursts and fights, however, he had never seen Sherlock react so viscerally to a situation before.

In one swift move, he physically slammed Sherlock onto his back and pinned him to the ground with an arm over his chest. Glancing back at Asher and Davis, Mycroft dealt them a severe look.

“Get out of here.” He demanded icily, holding Sherlock to the ground. “ _Now_.”

Panicked, the two boys made a desperate break for Mrs. Holmes’ back gates before disappearing down the street.

With the breath knocked from his lungs along with the departure of Asher and Davis from the scene, Mycroft released his hold on Sherlock when the brunette showed signs of forfeit. As he looked at the heaving boy beneath him, Mycroft was torn between feeling guilty for having had to handle Sherlock that severely, and shocked that Sherlock had lost such control of himself in the first place.

Mrs. Holmes’, clad only in a lilac housecoat that she had quickly thrown on, had already dropped to her knees in front of John, cradling his chin in her hands as she inspected the damage.

“Look at me, John. I need to see how bad it is.” She replied calmly, though casting Sherlock a worried glance. “Are you alright, Sher?”

“He’s fine.” Mycroft replied, panting as he rose into a crouch. “Just a bit bruised.”

“That boy could press charges for this.”

“Let him fucking _try_.” Sherlock hissed.

“Watch your mouth!” She snapped, turning back towards Mycroft. “Can you call an ambulance?”

“It’s not that bad.” John replied weakly, hands white-knuckling the ground as he attempted to berate the pain into submission. “I can—“ John broke off with a sharp sob.

“Let them look at it, you _idiot_.” Sherlock snapped, adrenaline now giving way to thawing anger and fear. “I told you that plan was a bad idea.”

“The whole _thing_ was a bad idea!” His mother snarled, leveling him with a glare that could only rival his own in intensity. “Take him inside, Mycroft.”

“No.” Sherlock snapped, resolve stony and utterly closed for debate. “If he’s going to hospital, I’m going with him.”

“You’ll do as I say.”

“I don’t think it’s necessary to call an ambulance, though we may need to have the burns looked at.” Mycroft interrupted, tipping John’s chin towards the light and inspecting him thoroughly, careful not to touch any of the weeping wounds.

The skin down the side of his face was bright pink and folded at the edges where it had been burned by the fire. The flesh underneath the burns was glossy and raw, and soot from the firework flecked John’s nose, ear, and cheek, but none of it looked worse than a typical 1st-degree burn. “You are lucky that he did not aim two inches to your left or you’d be down an eye and a military career, John.”

“I told you boys not to play this game.” Mrs. Holmes replied, anger now vibrating in her tone as her lips ran white and thin. “I told you months ago that someone would get hurt and you two _deliberately_ disobeyed me.”

“He broke the rules.” John offered weakly, still reeling against the pain of the burns, and it was only now evident to Sherlock that tears were welling in John’s eyes.

 “And you broke _mine_!” She barked, prompting Sherlock, Mycroft, and John to visibly flinch and run rigid at her words.

It was rare that Mrs. Holmes demonstrated this level of anger, so when it did happen, they knew it was to be taken extremely seriously. “Here’s what’s going to happen, and I better not hear a _word_ of protest otherwise. I’m going to take John to the A &E to have him looked over. Mycroft, you will watch over your brother until we get back. Sherlock, if that room of yours is not _spotless_ by the time we get back, I will send John back to his house for the rest of the summer. Your father will be home tonight, and when he gets here, I expect that we will all have a long discussion about this. Is that _understood_?”

Feeling utterly angry and unhappy with the situation, Sherlock turned and stalked towards the house. Slamming the French doors with a wall-shaking rattle, Sherlock managed to make it half-way up the stairs before Mycroft had grabbed him by the shoulders and spun him around.

“Are you alright?”

“I’m fine.” Sherlock bit. “Let me go.”

Sensing that Sherlock was far too rattled to have any sort of conversation, Mycroft let his brother run to his room with another gratuitous slam of the door.

Twenty minutes after his mother’s car pulled out from the driveway with an injured John Watson in tow, Mycroft poured himself a glass of scotch and decided that perhaps he should have stayed at university for the duration of the summer. He had been home for less than twenty minutes and was already on the receiving end of Sherlock’s wrath and his mother’s foul mood. John Watson would be incapacitated for the next few days, meaning Sherlock would be thunderous and without distraction, and his father was nowhere to be found.

Hindsight truly is twenty-twenty.

Feeling an impending headache brewing, Mycroft trifled through his personal mail that had been saved for him while he was away when he came across an envelope that triggered dread in the pit of his stomach.

“St. Lucia Healthcare System and Genetic Laboratories.”

Although the envelope was addressed to his parents, Mycroft had a sneaking suspicion that this letter contained the reason for his parents’ insistence that he return home this summer. Opening the letter, his suspicions were confirmed when he read the following:

_“Greetings, thank you for choosing St. Lucia Health System for your healthcare needs. Enclosed are the requested A/B/O pH and urinalysis tests for William Sherlock Scott Holmes and John H. Watson. Directions for successfully completing the tests and submitting the specimens to St. Lucia Genetic Laboratory centers can be found on the back of the test, at a local St. Lucia office branch, or at the St. Lucia website. Please submit your tests within two business days from the time the test was taken, as A/B/O specimens are time-sensitive. All expired tests will be discarded and new tests will be mailed with a small convenience fee. Test results can be faxed, mailed, or accessed online in the patient’s chart for any patient over the age of eighteen or with written consent from a parent or legal guardian after three business days from the time the test was submitted. For more information, please contact your local St. Lucia facility.”_

Pulling out his phone, Mycroft fired off a quick text to his mother:

“ _It is safe for me to assume that the talk tonight will not entail any discussion of secondary genders, right?_ \-- MH”

Considering Sherlock’s extreme reaction to Asher Gordon, Mycroft wondered if the tests were ordered due to a series of behaviors that he had not previously noticed due to his studies at university. Had this been a recurring problem over the last year that his parents had failed to mention? Although Sherlock had always been a somewhat difficult child, he had never realistically lost control of his faculties the way that he had that afternoon. And all of that rage had occurred in response to a threat against John?

Sherlock and John had been friends since they were seven years old, but nothing had ever triggered that level of aggression from Sherlock. Not even instances of bullying against John when they were ten and eleven years old had triggered such hostility. Mycroft could understand the anger, as John was like a little brother to him, but Sherlock had demonstrated a very real intent to kill.  

Ten minutes later, a response arrived:

“ _Don’t go through my mail. And no, that is not safe for you to assume_.”

“ _Is there any chance that I may conveniently escape for the sexual portion of the conversation?_ \-- MH”

“ _Is there any chance that you do not want your trust fund?_ ”

Massaging his temples, Mycroft pocketed his phone, poured himself another glass of scotch, and mentally prepared himself to have the most dreaded conversation in an adult’s life:

Puberty of Alphas, Omegas, and Betas.  


	2. Balance of Probability

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hope you guys enjoy! As a reminder: Sherlock, John, and Mycroft are much younger in this story, so obviously their personalities will be different to their show personas. As they get older and the chapters progress, however, they will become more and more like their canon selves.

It was late when Mycroft finally heard the jingle of keys and the squeak of a door opening. From his spot on his father’s burgundy loveseat, Mycroft craned his neck towards the foyer where his mother was entering with a John Watson who had seen significantly better days.

“How are we feeling?” Mycroft asked, dropping his book “War and Peace” onto the nightstand to turn and survey the burned boy in question. John, ever the positive child, seemed to be struggling with exhaustion and a bruised ego more than any sort of physical pain.

“He’s lucky it’s not worse.” His mother scolded, though with less ire than before as she dropped her keys on the counter.

“So what’s the damage then, Soldier John?”

“1st-degree burns down the side of his face and ear. Blisters will likely appear tomorrow. He’ll have to have dressing changes five times a day along with routine application of burn creme.” She explained, popping the prescription ointment and gauze onto the table. “But for tonight, I think bedrest and a loss of privileges are just what the doctor ordered.”

“Can I at least take the bandages off?” John asked impishly, thumb fiddling idly with the gauze taped to his cheek. “I look stupid.”

“It doesn’t look half as stupid as the singed eyebrow.” Mycroft chided, finally reaching for John’s shoulder and pulling the boy into a hug. Despite his annoyance with the situation, John laughed and returned the hug, having genuinely missed Mycroft since his departure to university. Due to Mycroft’s arrival at the house being met with immediate chaos and warfare, he had been unable to properly greet the boys he had not seen in months.

“I do hope you’ve learned your lesson, John.”

“Yeah, learn to dodge.”

When his mother merely shot John a wary glance, Mycroft threw his head back and found himself laughing out loud for the first time in several weeks.

“Always a safe course of action, yes, but not what I was referring to.” He explained, hand cradling the boy’s neck. “The purchase of fireworks is illegal for boys your age. Both of you could get in trouble for this.”

“I know.” John admitted, face downturned and somewhat ashamed. “But Sherlock said you occupy a minor position in the government and your trust fund would be enough to buy a decent attorney if we were caught.”

“Sherlock also wasn’t the one who was hurt today.” Mycroft explained, half tired and half amused by the comment. “Money and power can’t save an eye any more than they can save a life.”

“You still didn’t deny it, though.” John grinned, smile bright despite his poorly appearance. “Are you a ‘big deal,’ Mycroft?”

“I could tell you, but then I’d have to kill you.”

“Cool!”

“We’ll speak of this tomorrow, love.” Mrs. Holmes interrupted, hand cradling John’s cheek. “Mr. Holmes won’t be home until late tonight, but rest assured that we will have a discussion tomorrow. For now, you need to sleep.”

“Can I talk to Sherlock?” John asked impishly, the air of previous mischief giving way to an unexpected humility.

“Not tonight. You two need some time alone to consider whether you want to do this again.” She replied firmly. Although her tone was scolding, there was a definite undertone of affection in her voice that betrayed any anger John felt at their punishment. In all reality, he somewhat expected that their punishment would entail some sort of separation.

After watching John trudge tiredly up the stairs, Mycroft turned to his mother and waited for the conversation he knew was coming.

“You need to talk to them, Mycroft.”

“Can I just ask _why_?” Mycroft asked, wincing at the very thought of the conversation as he poured himself a third shot of scotch. “The two of you gave me the dreaded talk when I was their age and you did…relatively well. You just want me to explain the birds and the bees so that you don’t have to.”

“No, I want you to explain it to them because you are an Omega yourself.” She clarified as she began to prepare a cup of chamomile tea for herself. “Your father and I are Betas. We lack the perspective of the Alpha-Omega mentality.”

“You don’t need perspective if you have a web browser.”

“You also don’t need a trust fund if you have a nine to five job.”

“Stop threatening me with that. You know the money is inconsequential to me.” He retorted. “And who’s to say they won’t be Betas as well? It seems a bit premature to assume they’re going to be Alpha positive based on a few pubescent behavior patterns.”

“You don’t believe that.” She quipped over the rim of her teacup.

“I don’t believe in God, yet I still attend Sunday Mass.”

“Ignoring that comment, you saw Sherlock’s behavior today. That is not his typical reaction, and we’ve seen that behavior pattern grow worse over the last year.”

“Sherlock has always been intense. We took him to see an autopsy of a cadaver for his 12th birthday, for Christ’s sake. His second gender was always going to be a wild card.”

“But he’s never been _ruthless_ , Mycroft. He was going to kill that Gordon boy if you hadn’t removed him from the situation.”

“And what of John?”

“I always assumed John would end up being an Alpha, but I’ve grown…less confident.”

“You think he’s a Beta? ‘Soldier John’, a _Beta_?”

“I think he’s Omega positive.” Came the sobered declaration, and Mycroft couldn’t help the small barb of shock that ran up his spine.

“What are you basing this on?” He asked, leaning back in his chair and folding his arms. “On what happened today? John is Sherlock’s only friend. I don’t think his reaction was indicative of…of any sort of ‘pre-bonding’ or something. If Sherlock is an Alpha, I think he’d respond that way to any threat against a loved one. Beta or not.”

“Today was a fluke. There have been other issues.” She explained, fingers tapping on the cup. After a moment of hesitation, she sat forward and placed the cup on the counter. “Your father and I have noticed certain things.”

“And by ‘things’ you mean…?” He prompted, eyeing her cautiously.

“Last month, I found a dirty shirt of John’s on Sherlock’s bed. I figured it was something John had left in there by accident, so I took it to the laundry to have it washed. That night, I caught Sherlock taking it back to his room. John has been asking us if we’ve seen it, and Sherlock has been lying to him about it. I checked his room again yesterday and found the shirt stuffed inside his pillowcase. It’s been in there for over a month now.”

Pinching the bridge of his nose, Mycroft merely closed his eyes and winced for a long, hard second. From the sound of it, his baby brother was unconsciously scenting John Watson.

“And we are all aware that John-Mark Watson is a _vile_ father and a foul human being. He phoned John the other day and John locked himself in his room after the conversation --wouldn’t speak, wouldn’t eat, wouldn’t even let Sherlock come in. I knew he was crying, but I wanted to give him some space and let him come to us about it.” She explained, eyes glazed as she remembered the event. “But Sherlock, he…he was so distraught that night. He was pacing and arguing and he tried to break the lock on the door until your father pulled him back. It wasn’t until John finally let him in the room that he calmed down. None of this would be too alarming if not for the fact that Sherlock said he was ‘uncomfortable.’ The way he used that word –it was like he was trying to say that he was--

“In pain.” Mycroft interjected, prompting a surprised look from his mother.

He knew the feeling well.

“Yes, it’s like he was feeling physical pain.” She confirmed. “Of course, John was his usual self the next morning, but we did notice that both of them came out of the room together. They haven’t slept in the same bed since they were seven years old, Mycroft. They think it’s weird.”

“Alphas and Omegas have empathic communication with each other. Betas do not.” Mycroft offered, realization dawning as he connected the dots. “Sherlock wouldn’t respond to John’s distress that way if John were simply a Beta.”

“Sherlock must be unaware that he’s doing it.” His mother continued. “If he knew what it all meant or that we were aware of it, he would surely put an end to it. The boy is notoriously private and will not talk with us about these things. I don’t understand it.”

“He’s using the shirt to comfort himself.” Mycroft offered, eyes still pinched shut as he considered the potential issues this problem would eventually present, especially in light of Sherlock’s personality. “If John is Omega positive, the smell can be…soothing.”

“And that is why I need for you to be present when we have this conversation, Mycroft. Your father and I don’t understand this, the…the scenting and bonding and heats and knotting.”

“I’m going to ask you to stop _right_ there.” He suddenly blanched, holding his hand out to halt that direction of conversation entirely. “ _Please_. Stop…talking.”

“You understand the biology. You experience the scenting and the heats and you know how to cope with the empathy. I know that your father and I have tried to help you through your heats as best we could throughout the years, but we don’t understand how they feel, and that is information those boys need to have. I know sentiment is not your forte, but I’m asking if you will talk to them about this.”

“I will agree to talk to them if you will agree to _never_ say that word again.”

“What word? ‘Knotting?”

“You are actually dehydrating my soul right now.”

“Don’t be childish. This is a natural part of any adult’s life.” She replied, standing from her chair and placing her cup in the sink. Turning on the tap, she began to rinse it with her two fingers. “I didn’t necessarily want them to be Alpha and Omega. It’s a harder life than a Betas’s life, and they will have much to overcome if the tests come back positive. But if they have to be, I would much rather have them experience it in this day and age. When I was a girl, the A’s and O’s lacked many of the resources they have today. The O’s got treated especially poorly, your uncle Kenneth being one of them.”

Mycroft couldn’t imagine the discrimination other Omegas would have experienced fifty years before. Even in a modern cultural setting, he still faced negative comments and attitudes about his status as Omega. His Omega positivity was almost entirely offensive to the people that succeeded in and ran the realm of politics, which is why he was becoming more and more of an isolationist the closer he moved in that direction.

“How do you expect ‘Soldier John’ will take the news if he ends up being an Omega?”

The frown on her face was enough of an answer.

“I don’t know. I was planning to cross that bridge when I got there. But whatever the outcome, they need a strong support network. John doesn’t have support in his own family, and I’ll be damned if he doesn’t get it from us.” She spoke, resolve evident in her tone. “And Sherlock needs to learn that he can feel comfortable speaking to us about this. Very soon here, he’s going to be facing a lot of uncertainty, and I need for him to trust us.”

“When do you want them to take the tests?” Mycroft asked, changing the subject as he reached for the envelope in which they were contained. Observing the offensive plastic tests in the light, he remembered his own dread and disgust at having to urinate on the infernal thing. With a grimace, he put the tests back down and slide them to the other side of the table.

“Tomorrow. I want your father to be present for the conversation. I’m afraid it won’t go over well, though I suspect Sherlock has been expecting ‘the talk’ for a while now. Some of their friends have already presented.”

 “Well. Into battle.” He replied, saluting her with the shot of scotch before downing the last of it in one swallow.

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

With extremely careful movements, John begged himself not to look down.

“Okay, John. You’ve got this.” He said shakily, swallowing heavily as he clenched the iron bars as tightly as possible. “You’re in Kandahar, and you’re currently being attacked from the ground by a group of rebels who have already sabotaged the convoy. You have to climb the city wall to find aid for your men.”

John, who was currently climbing the large, ivy-covered trellis leading to Sherlock’s window on the third floor, decided that it may not have been the best idea to scale a building at night when he considered the gauze covering his entire right eye.

After speaking with Mrs. Holmes and Mycroft, John decided to take a quick detour out of the second story window at the back of the house which was previously an old office room that Mr. Holmes had vacated several months before. It was not a large leap down to the ground from the second story, but John and Sherlock had set a ladder against the outside of the window in case they ever needed to escape the house undetected for any reason. 

John knew he was meant to be going to his room, but his intentions this time were good. Really, they were.

With careful steps, he maneuvered his foot into each open hole of the trellis, taking extreme caution to avoid looking at his current distance off of the ground. Reaching up as far as he could, John finally made contact with the wooden sill of Sherlock’s 3rd-story window. Spitting an errant ivy leaf out of his mouth, he carefully reached as high as his arm would let him and knocked twice on the base of the window.

When no response came, he cursed silently to himself and re-adjusted his position for better leverage.

“ _Sherlock_.” He called quietly, trying not to wake Miss Miskelly’s dog sleeping in the garden next door. “ _Sherlock!_ ”

Being met with total silence again, John turned and desperately looked for something to throw at the window. With nothing in sight to throw except ivy and curse words, John reached into his trousers and carefully popped off the single button that held the pocket shut. With careful precision, he launched the button at the window.

Just as the button was about to make contact with the glass, however, the window slid open and the button pelted Sherlock square in the eye, causing the brunette to flinch and curse. With a sharp hiss, Sherlock brought one hand to his eye as he craned his head out through the window and looked down.

“Sorry!” John called, struggling not to laugh as he gripped the trellis for dear life. “At least I won’t be the only one with a dodgy eye.”

“What the _hell_ are you doing?” Sherlock asked, looking down at the ground to make sure there was no one present in the garden below. “Do you _want_ my mum to kill you?”

“She won’t have to if you don’t let me in!” John somewhat screeched, arms growing tired. “My convoy is being attacked and my men are dying. Don’t just stand there, you _tart_.”

“Jesus, John.” Sherlock huffed, reaching down to grasp John’s wrist. With one impressive tug, Sherlock pulled John in through the window and deposited him onto the beige carpet in Sherlock’s bedroom. With one last glance at the area below, Sherlock shut the window and turned to John with an unimpressed glare.

“Hi.” John said, cheesy grin plastered on his face.

“What are you doing?”

“Nothing. Just wanted to see you.” John replied as he lazily tossed himself onto Sherlock’s bed, snuggling into the pillow. “I’ve been eyeing that trellis for years. Always wanted to do that.”

“You picked a hell of a night.” Sherlock quipped with a certain tone of annoyance. Reaching out, he placed one finger on John’s cheek and turned his face to the side. “What did they say?”

“Just 1st-degree burns with some minor scarring. Nothing serious.”

“Does it hurt?” Sherlock asked, mouth thinning into a white line.

“Yeah, but not too bad.” John waived, closing his eyes. “Doesn’t hurt as bad as my ego, though.”

Sitting on the edge of the bed, Sherlock pushed John’s head to the side once more and frowned.

“Hey, it’s not that bad.” John offered, attempting to smile at the brooding boy. “At least we won the game. Technically, I mean.”

“I’m not playing that game anymore.”

“No, I guess not.” John agreed. “But it was fun while it lasted, yeah?”

Leaning back onto his pillow, Sherlock resumed his reading of “Top Fifty Unsolved Serial Killers” and pointedly ignored the blond in his bed. After a minute of silence passed, John finally cleared his throat.

“Are you okay?” He asked cautiously, former confidence waning a little. “Today you seemed…upset.”

“I’m fine.” Came the rigid reply.

“Good, because we can’t say the same for Ash. You _destroyed_ him.”

“Hm.” Came the aborted reply, and John leaned back into the pillow and surveyed the room.

Sherlock’s room was minimalistic and mostly devoid of any sort of cultural entertainment or icons. Feeling awkward, John finally broached the subject that they had been dancing around all summer:

“You know we have to take the gender tests tomorrow. I saw them downstairs.”

“I told you it was coming.”

“You think you’ll be an Alpha?” John asked, hand fiddling idly with his hair.

“Don’t know, don’t care.” Came the bored reply as Sherlock closed the book, realizing then that he wasn’t going to be able to successfully resume his reading. “Either way, it’s not going to change my plans. I don’t want to bond with anyone.”

“Not even Molly Hooper? Eh?” John chided, sending Sherlock a playful elbow to the rib. “She would with you. She talks about your curls all the time. She thinks they’re pretty.”

“Beauty is a construct based on childhood impressions and influences.”

“…so you’re a pompous arse. That’s what you’re trying to say.”

“No, I wouldn’t bond with Molly Hooper, John. She’s boring.”

“Okay,” John began, turning onto his side and facing Sherlock with a devilish grin. “Let’s say you end up being an Alpha. If you had to share a heat with someone, who would it be?”

“No one.”

“No, like if you _had_ to share a heat with someone.”

“In what situation would I ever _have_ to share a heat with someone?”

“I don’t know. Let’s say someone has a gun to your mum’s head and they tell you that if you don’t share a heat with someone, they’ll shoot her. Who would you have a heat with?”

“That’s a ridiculous scenario.”

“Sherlock.”

“Irene Adler.” Came the sudden reply, and John was momentarily stunned into silence at the frankness of the admission. “If someone was going to kill my mum, I would share a heat with Irene Adler.”

“But what if you’re an Alpha, too?” John asked, suddenly finding himself thrown a bit off-kilter by the lack of hesitation in that answer. 

“Then I would share a heat with myself.”

When John burst out laughing at that comment, Sherlock couldn’t help but smile despite shushing John sharply when he heard movement downstairs. When John’s laughter finally died down, he brought a hand over his wounded face and winced.

“Shouldn’t have done that.” He grimaced, smile quickly fading. “Hurts.”

Frowning, Sherlock watched as John sat up and stood to his feet.

“I should go.” John admitted, pulling his jacket back over his shoulders. “It’s almost midnight.”

“You can’t go now; they’re in the living room. They’ll see you in the hallway if you try to go back now.”

“I’m not going back through the hallway. I’m going back down the trellis.”

“Like _hell_ you are.” Sherlock snapped, earning a startled look from John who momentarily paused in his attempt to zip up his jacket. Shaking his head in frustration with himself, Sherlock tried again: “I mean, you don’t have to go back. Just…stay here until morning and go back before they wake up.”

“You don’t care if I…sleep with you?”

“Not tonight. Just…do as I say.”

“Excuse me?” John asked, eyebrows rising in challenge. “Do as you _say_?’ When did you become my commanding officer?”

“When you decided to get hit in the face by a fireball. You’ve been dishonorably discharged for impudence and general incompetence.”

“Hey, that’s not fair.” John commented, crawling back into bed with Sherlock. Pulling the covers over, he turned to look at the annoyed brunette next to him. “You couldn’t have dodged that either. No one could have dodged that.”

“You wouldn't have had to dodge anything if you had listened to me in the first place.”

“This again?” John asked sleepily, eyes closing against his will. Reaching for the light, the room dropped to total darkness.

A few minutes of silence passed before John finally spoke up:

“What do you think I’ll be?” He asked, just barely on the cusp of consciousness. “What if I end up being an Omega?”

“Unlikely.” Sherlock replied, eyes growing heavy as well. “The data says no.”

“The data can be wrong.”

“Balance of probability.”

“What if one of us ends up being an Alpha and one of us is an Omega? Do you think they’d make us separate like they do at school?”

“No.” Came Sherlock’s last comment before he, too, succumbed to the temptation of sleep.


	3. Cucumbers and Corpses

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ***WARNING***  
> This chapter has some more aggressive content in terms of light, non-consensual behavior. Please read at your own risk. There will be two to three more chapters based around their thirteenth year, but I will soon be jumping to the ages of sixteen and seventeen. I will likely stay there for a while. Also, I didn't find definitive information for the names of Sherlock's parents, so I'm calling them Sinclair and Ada -- old-fashioned, old-money names. :) Hope you guys stick around!

A sliver of white light pierced Sherlock’s cheek from where Mrs. Holmes had cracked his door open around midnight that night. She was wholly unsurprised to find John asleep next to him, un-bandaged side of his face turned into the pillow. With a soft squeak, she closed the door and turned to her husband, who had just arrived home sometime around 11:30.

“He snuck in.”

“Can’t say I blame him. It wasn’t the best day they’ve ever had.”

“He was meant to go to his room.” She replied, casting her husband a wary glance. "That's twice he's disobeyed in one day."

“A minor offense, yes --nothing compared to what they could be doing. When I was John’s age, I was knicking cigars out of my grandfather’s desk drawers and smoking marijuana with my cousins.”

“It’s not necessarily John that worries me. Sherlock’s become...wild.”

With a bemused smile, Mr. Holmes wrapped his arm around his wife’s shoulders and began walking her gently to their bedroom.

“These years were always going to be difficult. Let’s be careful not to assign blame to their genders in light of the fact that they _are_ thirteen years old. They’re supposed to be awful. It’s written in the laws of the universe.”

“They can be awful without being charged for aggravated assault. That’s a bill we don’t need.”

“Yes, I suppose we will have to have a discussion about that.” He agreed, good humour evident in his voice. “However, the Gordon boy had it coming. That hellion tied fireworks to Pilot’s tail and trampled the pansies by the mailbox. If Sherlock wanted to make his dad proud, he’d have knocked the boy unconscious.”

“Sherlock isn’t trying to make you proud, love.”

“The point still stands.”

“We didn’t plan for John to be an Omega.” She offered seriously, folding down the duvet on their bed. "This may change things."

“And we shouldn’t _plan_ on anything until the tests come back.” He said, turning to kiss his wife on the cheek. Holding her shoulders steady, he gave her a warm, full smile. “There’s been enough trouble for one day. Let’s address the hypotheticals when they become definitives, yeah?”

“That’s fine.” She conceded, eyebrows rising in challenge. “As long as you understand that you will be leading the discussion with the boys tomorrow.”

“Unless I am needed at the office, of course.”

“Sinclair.”

“We can’t discount the possibility.”

“Watch me.”

“I do so love you, Ada.” He smiled as he reached for the lamp.

\-----------

With as much guile as he was physically capable, John carefully pushed Sherlock’s bedroom door open, wincing at the squeak that sliced the stony silence of the estate.

Glancing over the third-floor balcony, John saw the sun just barely making an appearance through the French doors on the main floor below. Tip-toeing back to his own room, the traditional tune of the grandfather clock in the living room was a jarring reminder of the hour:  It was currently 6:00 AM, and John was still dreadfully tired and miserable from the day before.

“Going somewhere?”

Flinching, John turned in his journey to find Mycroft leaning against the doorframe of his own bedroom with a pointedly smug smile on his face.

“I—“

“I didn’t realize you and Sherlock still held slumber parties with each other." He remarked, shoving himself off of the door frame. "It would actually be rather endearing if you hadn’t scaled a building in order to do so. Next time you want to have a cuddle with His Majesty, just ask me to distract Mum for you. A good snuggle is not worth risking your life.”

“It’s not like that.”

“Then what is it ‘like?”

“I don’t know.” John shrugged. “...coincidental?”

“Try again.” 

Sighing, John fully faced Mycroft with a defeated expression.

“I know it looks weird, but it was either stay the night or climb back down the trellis –-and trust me, climbing _up_ the trellis was bad enough.”

“So why did you do it?”

“I just wanted to make sure he was okay.” John admitted shyly, eyes focusing absently on the floor. “Are you going to tell your Mum?”

“No.” Mycroft conceded after a few seconds of consideration, his tone conveying an air of seeming satisfaction with John’s answer. “I won’t tell her under the condition that you opt to use the stairs instead of the trellis next time.”

“But my men needed aid.” John smiled, a mischievous grin betraying his previous embarrassment. “And there won’t always be stairs. Sometimes you have to make your own path.”

“A ‘path’ or a ‘walk of shame?’” Mycroft quipped, gesturing to Sherlock’s door. “It’s hard to tell the difference right now.”

“You’re horrible and manipulative and rotten to the core. You're going to be a good politician.” John laughed, earning a smile from the elder Holmes.

“Will you two _shut up_?” Came a voice, and John and Mycroft turned to find Sherlock standing at his door with wild curls, tired eyes, and a pointedly sour expression.

“Ah, he wakes! My blessed cherub and light of my life!” Mycroft beamed sarcastically, walking towards the brunette with outstretched arms. “The Cain to my Abel! My morning dew! My buzzing bee!”

“Fuck off.” Sherlock murmured as he was enveloped in an embrace by his elder brother whom he had not properly greeted since his arrival the day before.

“ _Sherlock_!” Mrs. Holmes snapped, coming into the hallway as she tied her lilac robe in front of her. “If I hear it again, you will lose privileges. Is that _understood_?”

“Yes.” Sherlock mumbled, turning away from Mycroft with a surly expression.

“Your mouths have become _foul_ lately.”

“Shit, Ada, have you seen my razor?”

“Can’t imagine why…” Mycroft quipped mutely, earning a stern glare from his mother as his father appeared behind her.

“Mr. Holmes!” John exclaimed, lunging forward and into the outstretched arms of Mr. Holmes as he walked through the bedroom door, face covered in shaving cream. It had been three weeks since Mr. Holmes had left for an extended business trip in the States.

John, whose own father was a poor excuse for a human being, had found Mr. Holmes to be a solid father figure in the midst of the deeply heartbreaking circumstances surrounding his family situation. Having known John since he was six years old, Mr. and Mrs. Holmes often failed to distinguish any difference in affection between their biological children and John Watson.

Having never known his mother due to her death during childbirth, it was remarkable that John was an essentially positive force despite the desolation of love and affection in his life outside of the Holmes family.

“John boy!” Mr. Holmes laughed as he pulled the blond into a tight hug. “And where is that curled child of mine? Come here so that I can feel your hatred instead of simply seeing it, Sherlock.”

Dubiously amused, Sherlock leaned into his father’s embrace as well.

“Why so hesitant? Does the shaving cream put you off? Here, have some.” He replied, spurring laughter from John as he swiped some of the cream off of his chin and onto Sherlock’s face.

“I am going to make a good breakfast this morning, boys.” Mrs. Holmes announced, interrupting the shaving cream altercation. “Does anybody want to guess why I am going to make a good breakf—

“We’re going to talk about sex.” Came Sherlock’s blunt answer, and John, for all the maturity in the world, could not help the laugh that sputtered from his mouth as he attempted to turn away.

“I…yes, actually. Can I ask what led you to that conclusion?”

“Given the urinalysis tests on the counter from St. Lucia’s, your recent search history concerning pubescent A/B/O behaviors, and the fact that you only ever make breakfast to preface something deeply uncomfortable, it was logical to assume that the secondary gender conversation was the only possible option.”

"You're absolutely right." She chirped. "Both of you boys are rapidly changing, which means we need to have a conversation about sex."

“Amazing.” John huffed, earning a small smile from Sherlock. 

“There’s always a small margin of error, though.” Sherlock admitted. “We could be having this conversation because someone in the family is dying.”

“And it’s likely me.” Mycroft murmured under his breath, prompting a snort from John. Clapping his hands together, he feigned an insincere smile and turned to his mother: “Anyway, I really need to run into town and get a few things before the shops close.”

“Yeah, and I need to start my summer reading…”

“I just don’t want to talk.”

“And I need to stop by the office and check in with JoAnne." Mr. Holmes remarked as he glanced at his watch. "I’m sure my appointments and voicemails are queuing up like the dickens. Work simply never stops.”

“It will _today_.” Came the emphatic reply, and Mrs. Holmes simply could not minimize the joy she felt in getting to watch her husband and eldest son navigate the upcoming conversation. “To the kitchen, boys.”

Wincing in defeat, Mycroft, John, Sherlock and Sinclair simply trudged into the kitchen with the intention of ending this conversation as quickly and as smoothly as possible.

\--------------

“If you are planning to use that as some sort of demonstration, I will actually slit my throat.” Sherlock commented factually, eyes fixated on the large cucumber resting on the table in front of them.

"Oh, for the love--" Mycroft cringed.

“It wouldn’t really work, though.” John interrupted, brow furrowing as he poked the cucumber with his finger like it was some sort of dead animal. “It doesn’t have a knot.”

“How do you know what a knot is?” Mrs. Holmes questioned, tone somewhat surprised. “Have you been hanging around that Anderson boy again?”

“Jesus Christ.” Mycroft cringed, bringing his hand over his eyes and turning from the wreckage in front of him. It was like a horrifying car accident, and Mycroft was the twisted, smoking remains of the carnage. Mr. Holmes, who was currently emotionally absent from the entire situation, simply sat in silence with the newspaper outstretched and covering his face.

“Everyone knows what a knot is.” John offered casually. “Only Alphas get them and they have a lot of cum in them.”

With a startled inhale, Mycroft found himself unceremoniously choking on his milk as his father simply brought the newspaper closer to his face. At that distance, the newspaper was likely touching his nose and was entirely indiscernible.

“Sinclair.” She sighed, casting her eyes towards the man in hiding.

“We don’t say ‘cum,’ John, we say 'semen.” Mr. Holmes replied from behind the fortress of newspaper. 

“We shouldn’t be ‘ _saying_ ’ any of this!” Mycroft somewhat screeched, hand covering his mouth. Glancing at the remainder of the milk in his glass, he concluded that he could not physically or emotionally finish off a glass of white liquid for the remainder of the day.

“I don’t think the cucumber is big enough.” John evaluated abruptly. “Alphas have really big coc—“

“Excuse me?”

“…man parts.” John corrected. "They have really big man parts."

“It’s big enough if you’re an Omega.” Sherlock quipped, an evil grin sliding up his face. “Isn’t that right, Mycroft?”

“I’m leaving.” Mycroft groaned, chair scraping harshly against the ground as he stood up. “This is corrosive. I do not have to stand for this.”

“ _Sit down_ , Myke!” Mrs. Holmes snapped. “Forget the cucumber! The cucumber is for dinner tonight! For Christ’s sake, I wouldn’t use a _vegetable_ to explain anal sex to the lot of you!”

“She said a bad word.” John whispered in shock, turning to Mr. Holmes with an alarmed expression. “Can she say that? Can _I_ say that?”

“It’s ‘intercourse,’ love, not anal sex.” Mr. Holmes waived.

Sensing a loss of control over the parameters of the conversation, Mrs. Holmes spoke up:

“If both of you can explain to me in concise terms what the sexual aspect of A/B/O mating entails, we will move forward into the secondary gender portion of this conversation. If you cannot take this seriously, we will continue to discuss this in explicit detail, and I will make it as uncomfortable as possible.”

“Betas have regular sexual encounters with each other involving vaginal or anal sex.” Sherlock began, evidently ready to be through with this conversation. “Alphas and Omegas have heats with each other that involve vaginal and anal sex propelled by pheromones. When Omegas enter heats, Alphas enter into ruts in response to the Omega heats. Omegas and Alphas can go on suppressants if they want to. Heats last for two to three days depending on the person, and Alphas have been known to become aggressive and territorial with their Omega partners, especially if they’re un-bonded. A bond bite is essentially the bursting of the pheromone gland responsible for the heats.”

“Thank you, Wikipedia. Can I bookmark that article?” Mycroft deadpanned, earning an inconspicuous middle finger from his younger brother.

"Boys." Came Mr. Holmes benign warning from somewhere beyond the safety of the Sunday paper.

“Yeah, and Alphas get knots on their man parts and they hold a lot of…semen. But that only happens during heats with Omegas. Betas can’t do it.”

“…right. Since you two seem to have...satisfactory knowledge of the situation, I am going to assume you both understand the importance of safe sex?”

“Yeah, condoms and birth control and stuff.” John shrugged.

“Or just don’t bond with anyone.” Sherlock remarked blasély.

“Or just use cucumbers.” John then quipped, earning an abrupt snort from Sherlock and an unintentional laugh from Mr. Holmes, who quickly coughed to conceal the laughter.

Realizing that the quality of this conversation was dropping with every childish joke when the bar was already set so low, Mrs. Holmes simply reached for the envelope, pulled out the respective tests, and placed them in front of the boys.

“These are the tests you two will be taking today. They look very similar to traditional pregnancy tests because they essentially perform the same function. Pregnancy tests detect hormone levels, so do these—“ She began as she unwrapped one from its packaging and held it in front of them. “Both of you will pee on these tests, and you will place them back into the cartridges. I will mail them tomorrow and the results will be sent back to us. Once we determine what your second genders are, we will discuss what you can expect in the coming year.”

“This is really gross.” John grimaced as he held the offensive plastic object in his hand. "Is this a sin?"

“Can we go now?” Sherlock interrupted, his previous humour giving way to a growing annoyance with the entire situation. “We have sufficient knowledge of this stuff.”

“Will you take the tests tonight?” She challenged, the tone of her voice indicating an unwillingness to argue.

“Yes.” Sherlock replied, fingers tapping impatiently on the counter.

“And you’ll give them back to me tonight?”

“Yes.”

“And you, John?”

“Yes, I’ll pee on the stick.”

“Then you may leave.”

Before she could finish her sentence, the room filled with the sounds of chairs scraping against the tile as every individual in the room exited with a truly unrivaled expedience.

When the kitchen was left with a near vacuum of silence, Mrs. Holmes smiled to herself.

She should have uncomfortable conversations with her family more often.

\-------------

(Three Hours Later)

“When do you think it will start to smell?” John asked, wincing as he poked a stick into the soft belly of the carcass below him. “It already has flies on its eye juices.”

“It’s too fresh.” Sherlock evaluated, eyes scanning over the mutilated body of the deer at their feet. “Rigor mortis hasn’t set in, so I’d give it until tomorrow morning. The body hasn’t even started bloating from the post-mortem gasses.”

After their nearly fatal "family conversation" that afternoon, Sherlock had received a tip from Anderson that a large, dead deer was found on the property of the old, vacated house located nearly five miles into the woods behind the Holmes estate.

The house, which was terribly decayed and falling apart, had weeds and bushes as high as Sherlock and John’s knees, and the house had earned the nickname “The Laundromat” due to the old, rusted washing machine sitting abandoned in the wild grass and dandelions. There was a mattress with questionable stains propped against the side of the house, and cigarettes and beer bottles littered the base of the steps, giving the impression that the property might have been used as a drug den at one point. The house had been abandoned nearly six years before, yet the property was still owned by someone, somewhere. John and Sherlock had visited the house several times over the last few years out of pure curiosity, though neither was truly honest about the fear that the house inspired, which kept them at a comfortable distance.

The year prior, they had been explicitly forbidden from going to the house.

Being in the process of studying anatomy and wounds related to crime scenes, Sherlock was able to bribe Anderson into giving the information about the dead deer. One bribe and two hours later, John and Sherlock found themselves standing over the decaying corpse on the creepiest property John had encountered in all thirteen years of his life.

“I’m going to cut it open.” Sherlock decided after a minute of consideration, pushing his sleeves up and pulling out his knife. “These wounds don’t seem predatory. This was done by a weapon of some kind.”

“Don’t…do that.” John winced, turning away as Sherlock began to hack through the fibrous muscle and viscera. “Is this _really_ necessary?”

“It’s dead.”

“I know, but it’s…disrespectful. Somehow. _Jesus_ , Sherlock” John flinched as a fleck of blood spattered across his cheek.

“I need to learn the anatomy.” Sherlock replied, snapping a particularly stubborn strip of muscle with the blade of the knife. “A deer’s anatomy isn’t that similar to a human’s, but I can practice finding basic organs like livers and hearts. I can’t do this with the less-developed roadkill.”

"Can't you do this with the cadavers? You know --in a medical setting?"

"They won't let me touch the cadavers."

“This is so fucking weird. Seriously, this is how people end up in crime documentaries.” John commented, nervously glancing around as the sun began to wane navy blue below the horizon. “And it’s getting dark. We need to go back before we lose the light.”

“If you’re too scared, you can go back yourself.” Came the response as Sherlock used his wrist to push the curls out of his eyes. Brow furrowed in concentration, Sherlock began separating the folds of the deer’s organs with the knife edge and inspecting the entrails. “This has to be the liver.”

“I’m not leaving you, you pretentious twat.” John said, exchanging concerned glances with the house. “I’m just questioning your choices right now.”

“Nothing unusual there.”

“Sherlock—“

“Then go _home_.” Sherlock snapped, patience growing thin. “I’m—“

Before he could continue, however, both boys flinched and stood to their feet when the screened back door shot open with a creak and slammed shut with a rattle.

“What the hell are you doing!” Came an enraged voice; and in an instant, John and Sherlock were springing forward and sprinting towards the black woods they came through, both scattering in different directions from each other as the man sprinted down the steps after them.

And then all hell broke loose.

With a terrible grunting noise, John was abruptly shoved into the ground as the man in question straddled his back and wrenched his head back, fingers fisting crudely into the blonde hairs. Trembling, John could only swallow nervously as the man’s weight leveled him into the ground.

“Omega?” He asked, head bending down into the crook of John’s neck to sniff and prod. "And a baby Omega, too --too young for a place like this."

“Stop.” John begged, voice cracking due to the breath being knocked viciously out of his lungs.

“Unbonded and close to heat, and you come to the seediest place in a ten-mile radius to ‘ _hang out_?’” He challenged, ignoring John’s cries of protest as he lightly tasted the salty spanse of skin at the juncture of John’s neck and shoulder. “Exactly how _stupid_ can y—“

His sentence was cut short, however, by the piercing sound of a gun cocking behind the shell of his right ear.

The man, who was a 6"4" junkie in desperate need of a fix, suddenly ran silent and rigid at the metal barrel pressed firmly into the nape of his neck.

After a strained minute of tension, the man finally spoke up:

“Alright, alright.” He said soothingly, hands coming into the air in a sign of surrender. “I get it. I’m off. It’s good.”

Carefully standing to his feet, the man stepped over John's heaving body, hands still held in the air as Sherlock buried the gun further into the hairs of his head.

“John.” Sherlock bit, eyes never leaving the man's skull as he nodded in the direction of the woods, signaling John to get up and leave the area.

“But—“

“John!” Sherlock shouted, expression wild as he continued to level the man with a caustic glare. 

“You put the gun down, and I’ll let you both leave. Promise.” He bartered, licking his lips nervously. "This ain't what you want, little bee."

“You turn around, go back into that house, and I won’t blow a hole through your head.” Sherlock seethed, leaving no room for protest or negotiation as he walked the man back toward the steps.

Standing slowly to his feet, John caught sight of Sherlock’s hands trembling violently where he was white-knucking the gun.

For all of the years that John had spent with Sherlock, he had never suspected that Sherlock would be capable of whatever it was that he was currently witnessing. For the first time in their relationship, he truly felt out of his depth and acutely aware of the dynamic between he and Sherlock shifting into something different. It was made clear to him, in that suspended moment, that he had never once seen anything real in his lifetime.

He had never known this.

After the slowest passage of time that John had ever experienced, both boys watched as the man backed carefully into house, hands in the air, before shutting the door with an amused grin. And the second that screen door slammed shut, both boys were sprinting back through the woods, never sparing a glance back at the house.

Years later, when everything would eventually start to make sense, John would look back on this day and remember it as the day that he lost something he would never get back.


	4. Marking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ***WARNING***  
> We're still dealing with very sensitive non-con themes in this chapter, so be discerning. Hope you guys enjoy! Savour them while they're thirteen years old, because we'll be moving onto age seventeen in about two chapters. :)

John’s lungs were aching with fire by the time he and Sherlock finally breached the outer edge of the woods.

After their panicked run back from The Laundromat, they finally arrived at the large rod-iron gates of the Holmes estate surrounding the back garden.

Fumbling nervously with the brass lock, Sherlock finally pushed the gate open with a clumsy desperation that was uncharacteristic of the usually-graceful boy. Though it was now entirely dark outside, John could see flecks of brown blood drying on his ankles and calves from the thorn bushes that he had torn through in their attempt to get back to the house as quickly as possible. Sherlock's arms and legs were equally battered by the brush, and the curls were plastered to his forehead with sweat.

As the gate slammed shut with a pained groan, John nearly tripped forward when Sherlock grabbed the hem of his shirt and pulled him into his father’s tool shed.

“Don’t tell them what just happened.” Sherlock blurted, slamming the door shut behind them as Mr. Holmes tools rattled with the impact of the force.

“I won’t, but why?” John questioned, panting and terrified.

“If they find out we went to that house, they’ll send you back home.” Sherlock explained, eyes wild and hands shaking. “I know my Mum. If she finds out we disobeyed twice in one day, she’ll make you leave just to prove a point to me. Don’t tell anyone, John –not even Mycroft.”

“He called me an Omega.” John replied, still utterly preoccupied by the events that had just unfolded.

“He was high.”

“He _licked_ me, Sherlock. That fucker actually licked me.” John insisted, unconsciously running a hand over the spot the man’s tongue had tasted. “He said I was close to a heat.”

“Ignore everything he said.” Sherlock interjected, stepping closer and regarding John intensely. “I don’t know what you are or what I am, but we’ll think about that later. Right now, you need to climb up the escape route and run straight for the shower. If he really was an Alpha, Mycroft will be able to smell him on you, and we’ll get punished for this.”

Nodding in agreement, John leaned forward and braced himself on his knees, still struggling to regain his breath and composure.

 “Where did you get that gun?” John asked after a moment, glancing up at the brunette. “Your Dad would _murder_ you if he knew you had that.”

“Which is why you’re not going to tell him.”

“Why would I do that?” John questioned, fear now giving way to annoyance. “Do you think I _want_ to be sent back to my Dad?”

“I traded with Anderson.” Sherlock explained, pulling the gun out of its concealed holster and offering it to John. Running his hand over the black barrel, John aimed the gun at the wall and squeezed one eye shut, imagining himself as an assassin hiding in the dunes of Kandahar.

“Where did he get it?” John asked, pretending to take shots at a phantom target.

“He found it in his Grandfather’s attic. Look—“ Sherlock began, sidling behind John and positioning his arm over John’s. “You aim it by looking through the—“

When Sherlock abruptly aborted his explanation, John glanced back in confusion.

“What?” He asked, dropping the gun to his side.

“You smell bad.”

“Fuck off.” John scoffed. “We just ran 4.8 miles through the woods in the middle of summer. You don’t exactly smell like a flower, either.”

“No, that’s not what I mean.” Sherlock corrected. “You don’t smell bad, you just smell…annoying.”

“I smell…annoying.” John deadpanned with a bemused smile, prompting an annoyed snort from Sherlock.

“Forget it. I can’t explain it. Just go.”

“Are you coming up the escape route, too?” John asked as he pushed the shed door open.

“No, I’ll go in through the back. If Mum sees me, she'll have less reason to think we're up to something.”

Parting ways, Sherlock made his way through the French doors at the back of the house as John moved for the ladder they had propped against the second story window. At the top of the ladder, John fit his fingers under the window sill and pushed up, prompting the window to slide open with a stubborn creak. Climbing belly-down through the window, John put both hands on the carpet below and rolled forward into the emptied office room.

“Second walk of shame today.”

Flinching, John jolted around to Find Mycroft, arms crossed, standing beside the window with a knowing smirk.

"Mycroft! What--"

“Is this going to become a pattern?”

“How do you _always_ know where I am? Did you put a _tracer_ on me?”

“No, but I may take that idea into consideration depending on what your explanation for this is.”

“I...uh..."

Raising his eyebrows, Mycroft merely continued to smirk as he watched John struggle for a believable explanation.

"Yes?"

"Well, we...uhm."

"How eloquent. I see a fruitful career as a playwright in your future, John."

“I wanted to test the reliability of the ladder in case the house ever gets set on fire.”

“That’s a lie.”

“Maybe, but that’s actually something we should probably do.”

“I do so love to watch you squirm.” Mycroft grinned in utter self-satisfaction.

“That’s mean.”

“Not as mean as Mum and Dad will be if they know you two visited that vacant property on the North side.”

“How did you know?” John blanched, eyes bulging in surprise. “There’s no _way_ you could have known that.”

“I didn’t. Thank you for confirming.”

“Shit.” John whispered, throwing his head back in frustration when he realized how he'd been played. "Sherlock's gonna' be so angry."

“Hm.” Mycroft agreed, throwing an arm around John’s shoulder and walking him to the door. “If you’re going to live with us, you really need to work on the art of deception. We Holmes have a long history of artifice, John. You’ll never be able to properly misbehave if you--“

Aborting that statement entirely, John simply looked up at Mycroft in confusion when the elder Holmes failed to continue.

“Are you okay?” John asked cautiously, suddenly unsettled by Mycroft’s plunging drop in good-humour. Coming around to the front, Mycroft grabbed John by the shoulders and looked into his eyes with a deeply severe expression.

“Did something happen when you two went to that house?”

“No.”

“John.”

“No, we—“

“This is a serious question, John, and I need you to be honest with me. I won’t tell Mum and Dad about this if you promise to tell me the truth.” Mycroft emphasized gravely. “Did something happen while you and Sherlock were at that house?”

“We—" He began, hesitation crippling his bravado as he cleared his throat awkwardly. “There was a dead deer at the house. We went to dissect it, but a man was in the house. We didn’t know. He was angry at us for trespassing.”

A lie of omission.

Mycroft was better than that, though.

“Did he put his hands on you?”

"I--"

"John."

“Not Sherlock, but he…” John attempted, growing desperately uncomfortable with the situation. “He knocked me over, and--”

“Did he put his mouth on you?”

Mycroft felt a sharp pang of fury pulse up his spine with the small, unsure nod John gave him.

“Where?”

Frowning, John pulled his shirt collar aside and displayed it for Mycroft to see. “He said I was…close to heat. He called me an Omega.”

Standing at his full height, Mycroft looked past John and into the dark curtain of woods out the window.

After a minute of silence, John finally spoke up:

“He marked me, didn’t he?” John asked crestfallenly, mouth twisting in discomfort as he cast his eyes towards the ground. “I figured that’s what he was trying to do.”

“A mark is different from a bond-bite.” Mycroft explained, dispelling his previous anger to try and regard John with something less foreboding. “He marked you, but his scent will leave once you wash it off. It's not permanent.”

“Am I an Omega?” John then blurted, and Mycroft felt his own ire kindle when the boy's eyes welled wet and red. He had not seen John cry since he was eight years old, but the boy looked to be dangerously close to tears in front of him.

“I don’t know, John.” He offered sincerely, though entirely convinced of John’s Omega positivity on a personal level. “But I think this situation proves the need for you two to take the tests as soon as possible. The time is at hand, I’m afraid.”

“What if I’m an Omega?”

“Then you will continue to live an ordinary life doing ordinary things as an ordinary boy.”

“But you hate being an Omega.”

“I hate being out of control of my body.” He corrected, reaching into his pocket and flipping through his wallet. “But being out of control is part of being alive.”

“So you hate being alive?”

“When you take a shower, use this.” Mycroft interrupted, pulling a travel-sized packet of some sort of cream out of his wallet.

“Beta No. 9?” John asked insecurely, eyeing the offensive object placed in his palm. "It's body wash?"

“In a way. This is a brand of body wash designed to neutralize the scents of marking.”

“…this is for Omegas.”

“Any gender can use it. It’s not a bra, John, for Christ's sake.”

Grimacing, John stuffed the packet of cream into his pocket.

“So you’re not going to tell your Mum and Dad about me and Sherlock?”

“Not this time. However--” Mycroft began, once again holding John’s shoulders and observing him with a rigidly somber expression. “If I catch word of you and Sherlock going back to that house again, I will send you back home _myself_ , John. Don’t make me do that to you.”

“Thanks.” John offered with a small, unassuming smile.

“Off to the shower.” Mycroft nodded towards the hallway, watching as John peered around the door before making a dash for the bathroom. “Oh, and John!”

“Yeah?” John asked, peaking back into the room. With a smirk, Mycroft pulled a single package out of the pocket of his coat and presented it to John.

“Ugh, no!” John cringed as Mycroft plopped the concealed gender test into his hand.

“Oh, yes.”

“This goes against my religion.”

“What religion is that?”

“Uhm…name some religions for me.”

“Go, John.”

With a groan, John clasped the gender test, turned, and sauntered miserably out of the room.

“Do it while you’re in the shower!” Mycroft called with an unapologetically bemused grin. “It will help control any errant urine!”

“Ugh, shut up!” John called before slamming the bathroom door across the hallway.

And with that parting sentiment, Mycroft decided that he had had quite enough of this.

Walking calmly down the hallway, Mycroft paused in front of Sherlock’s room before giving a single knock on the door. Without waiting for any sort of confirmation or greeting from his beloved little brother, Mycroft traipsed into his Sherlock's room with an air of absolute confidence.

Sherlock, who currently lay in bed with his copy of “America’s Deadliest Cold Cases" on his lap, shot Mycroft an annoyed glance at the unannounced intrusion.

“Can I help you?”

With a smirk, Mycroft held up the gender test and tossed it onto Sherlock’s bed.

“You can’t make me do it.”

“True.” Mycroft agreed with a casual nod of his head. “But I _can_ make John go back home if I tell Dad the two of you went to that house on the North side.”

With a jolt, Sherlock snapped his head up to observe his brother in shock.

“How did you—“

“It doesn’t matter.”

“That _idiot_.” Sherlock bit, realization dawning. “He couldn’t lie to save his life. I gave him _one_ job.”

“The two of you are lucky something worse didn’t happen.” Mycroft interrupted, anger flaring at Sherlock’s cavalier attitude towards the situation. “You were _forbidden_ from going to that house. I know Mum can be irrational about your safety, but I told you not to go to that house as well. This isn’t like a game of 'East Wind', Sherlock. That property has had a history of being used as a drug den, and you _know_ that. You two could have been taken or killed.”

“It was an accident.”

“No, it wasn’t.”

“You’re right. And I don’t care.” Sherlock replied boredly, turning back to his book with a wave of his hand. “Leave.”

“That man marked John as a potential mate.”

Although Mycroft frequently enjoyed trapping his little brother into a corner like this, he did not revel in Sherlock’s look of shock this time. This was a much more serious issue than the two of them seemed to realize, and he needed for them to understand the implications behind what happened with startling clarity so that they would never take such a careless attitude towards this again. If it meant communicating the consequences of their actions, he would willingly flay them with the truth.

“Is that permanent?” Sherlock asked, uncertainty chipping away at his previous indifference to the affair.

“No, but it means there’s a strong possibility that John is going to be Omega positive, which means he will likely spend the rest of his life having to avoid confrontations like that.”

Mycroft would know. 

With a hard swallow, Sherlock nodded his head and put the book down.

“What do I need to do?”

“For now, you need to take this test willingly so that we can help the two of you go from here.” Mycroft explained, tone a bit scolding in the hope that Sherlock would understand the severity of the situation. “John does not have a support network outside of our family, and living as an Omega is a difficult life. If you resist our attempts to help you, John will go along with you. It’s what he does.”

After a moment of doleful consideration, Sherlock reached for the test, threw the duvet off of his knees, and walked into his bathroom.

“I will wait here until you are done. I’m mailing them tonight.” Mycroft called over the sound of the tap turning on.

After a minute of waiting, Sherlock emerged from the bathroom with at least tend shades of misery plastered over his face. Avoiding eye contact, he held the test out to Mycroft where the elder Holmes discreetly placed it back into the cartridge and pocketed it.

“Thank you.”

“It’s fine.” Sherlock replied tersely, crawling back into bed and visibly erecting walls around any attempts from Mycroft to take the conversation any further.

“You know this won’t be the end of the world.” Mycroft offered, walking towards the wild-curled boy. Brushing his curls back from his head, Mycroft smiled at the surly boy below him. “And the sooner we know, the sooner we can never speak of it again.”

“Hm.”

Finally turning to leave, Mycroft was suddenly halted by the unsure sound of Sherlock saying his name.

“Yes?”

“If John is an Omega and I am an Alpha, will Mum and Dad make him go back home?”

If things went to hell, it was a definite possibility. By law, primary care physicians could not prescribe hormonal suppressants to minors without written consent from a legal guardian, and John’s father would be useless in that case. John-Mark Watson would never be willing to pay for suppressants out of pocket, and Mycroft was currently utilizing an intra-dermal suppressant, therefore being unable to share pills with John. His parents would have been more than willing to buy the suppressants for John, but they would never have legal authority to sign any consents for John to receive the treatment until John-Mark Watson relinquished legal guardianship of John.

Until John turned sixteen, he would likely be unable to pursue suppressants on his own. But it was equally unfathomable to suggest that his parents would willingly send John back into the care of John-Mark Watson even for the short duration of a heat, which meant they had an extreme change of plans to solidify and prepare for if John and Sherlock's tests came back Omega and Alpha positive.

“I wouldn’t allow it, Sherlock.” Mycroft replied, offering his brother a peace treaty in the form of a very genuine promise. Sherlock, accepting that olive branch, returned Mycroft’s smile with his own tentative version. “Go to bed, you brat. We’ll discuss it all tomorrow.”

With a click of the lock, Mycroft exited Sherlock’s bedroom, and Sherlock carefully watched the shadows of his feet move under the door. When he was sure that Mycroft had descended the stairwell at the end of the hallway, Sherlock left his own room and snuck down the hall.

Prying John’s door open, Sherlock entered the lamp-lit room to find John reading in bed much like he had just been doing.

“I know, I’m sorry—“ John began, dropping his book and sitting up in bed with an apologetic look. “But it really wasn’t my fault this time. He was waiting for me by the window. He _trapped_ me, Sherlock, there was nothing I could d—

“Are you okay?”

“What?” John asked, surprise evident in his tone as Sherlock completely derailed his clumsy apology.

“Are you okay?” Sherlock inquired again, unable to make eye contact with the blond before him. "I didn't ask. Before."

Looking down with a certain vestige of shame, John fiddled idly with his duvet.

“He marked me.”

“I know.”

“I’m probably an Omega.” John said, looking at everything in the room except his best friend. “I’m going to have a shitty life.”

“My parents care about you. They won’t let you have a shitty life.”

“If my Dad finds out I’m an Omega, he'll--"

John left the idea unspoken, but only because Sherlock already understood what he meant, and he couldn’t bear to say it out loud. 

It was the reason he was living with the Holmes in the first place. John can still run his fingers over the scar on his hairline from the first time it happened.

“Mycroft promised me that they’d never send you back.” Sherlock replied, tone surprisingly steely. “And despite his incredible shortcomings, Mycroft has never broken a promise.”

Taken aback, John observed Sherlock in surprise.

“How do you know?”

“Because I asked him.”

“Oh. That’s good.” John agreed awkwardly, though reveling in the burst of security that gave him. “That’s…really good.”

After a moment of suspended tension, Sherlock finally spoke up:

“Can I—“

“Yeah.” John grinned, folding down the corner of the duvet and moving to the other side of the bed. “This is still fucking weird, but yeah. You can.”

And with that understated acquiescence, Sherlock crawled into John’s bed and turned off the lamp.


	5. This Is What You Need To Know

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! Another chapter! One more chapter until the time-jump, too! :) When the boys are sixteen, we will also introduce Mystrade into the story! Keep in mind: this is definitively a Johnlock and Mystrade story, but I like a very slow-burn progression, so be prepared to wait for the pay-off. But I can promise you that when it happens, it will be really nice! 
> 
> ***WARNING***
> 
> This chapter details a real American murder case that happened back in the 1940's. In this chapter, I describe the details of the murder as it relates to the mutilation done to the body of the victim. If you're uncomfortable with that, please tread lightly! 
> 
> Hope you guys enjoy!

“Why do you reckon they cut her tits, though?” Wiggins asked, a nonplussed expression on his face as he watched the television screen. 

“They completely cut her body in half, but you’re hung up on the _tits_?” John countered, brow slightly furrowed as the lights from the images flickered over his face.

Gruesome pictures of a girl with a completely severed torso flashed every few seconds as the narrator explained the situation surrounding the horrifying crime scene. The pictures contained images of entrails and viscera and other things that should decidedly _not_ be present outside of the human body.

Sherlock always found this stuff fascinating and Bill Wiggins was mostly just desensitized to gore and macabre, but John still felt queasy at graphic depictions of violence.

He’d never let them know, though.

It was 2:00 PM in the afternoon, and Sherlock, John, and their casual classmate-friend Bill Wiggins were currently huddled on Mycroft’s bed watching a documentary on the unsolved murder of “The Black Dahlia.” (Or, as Sherlock referred to it, “An interesting crime ruined by a flare for the dramatic.”) They weren’t technically _supposed_ to be watching the documentary, but Mycroft promised he would arrange a “private showing” for the three of them if they agreed to occupy Mum and Dad for an afternoon visit to the park so that he could run into town for a few hours.

“Look—” Sherlock began, leaning forward and pausing the video. Pointing at the image, he turned back to the two boys on the bed. “Do you guys notice anything strange about her body?”

“Yeah. It’s cut in half.” Wiggins deadpanned, prompting a burst of laughter from John.

“Why are you even here?” Sherlock asked, shooting the boy an annoyed glance. “Who let you in this time? This is why we need a bouncer.”

“Your Mum, actually. Said I was her favorite.” Wiggins sniffed, indignance evident in his upturned expression. “She said she’d much rather have me here than Anderson.”

“At least Anderson has interesting connections. You have nothing but fleas.” Sherlock quipped.

“Fuck off, you ponce.”

“She’s positioned weird.” John interrupted, voice somewhat croaking between fits of laughter. “She looks like she’s from a painting.”

“True, but what _else_ do you notice?”

Wincing, Sherlock and Wiggins began to speculate the image of Elizabeth Short’s body with a deeper scrutiny.

“He’s cut her mouth at the sides.”

“Glasgow smile. Obvious.” Sherlock waived. “Don’t look at the obvious tells. The smile, the severed torso – those are theatrical choices that he chose for their shock value. Those are things he wanted to be obvious. What’s something you _don’t_ see?”

After a minute of consideration, John’s eyes finally lit up with realization.

“Her skin. Look at her skin.” He said, standing to his knees and pointing accusingly at the screen. “She’s cut in half but there’s no blood anywhere on her body.”

“Yes.” Sherlock smirked, sending John a rare expression of approval. “A murder this grisly would have extreme blood loss involved, but there’s none to be found on her body or anywhere in the grass. That means it wasn’t a quick murder. If it wasn’t a quick murder, he wasn’t necessarily paranoid or afraid of the consequences of getting caught. Premeditated murder? Yes, he took the time to drain the blood from both ends of her body, washed them off after, and then positioned her in an artistic way. This means two things: one, he wasn’t unaccustomed to murder, but rather very comfortable with it and well-prepared to execute it masterfully. Two, he had probably targeted her for a long time. If he hadn’t, he wouldn’t have taken the time to cut her in half or carve the Glasgow smile. He would have executed a panic job and left major identifying marks around the crime scene. No, he wanted to savour this kill, which takes planning and a satisfying choice of victim. Result: this was the work of a serial killer and not a first-time offender. Authorities should’ve researched all suspects connected to local disappearances and similar murders of women at the time. Just watch: when we get to the end of the documentary, my analysis will be correct.”

“How do you know all that?” Wiggins asked, face a bit skeptical from Sherlock’s extensive tangent.

“I don’t ‘know.’ I observe.” Sherlock clarified. “But they usually end up being the same thing.”

“Like I said. Ponce.”

“But that leaves the question of a motive.” John interrupted factually, finger tapping idly on his lips.

“Nah. We know what the motive is.” Wiggins waived with a smirk.

“Do we?” Sherlock asked, expression bored and unimpressed. “Please. Scandalize us, _Billy_.”

“Well look at her. She was obviously an Omega.”

Unbeknownst to Wiggins, a sharp jolt of tension charged the atmosphere in the room with that singular word.

“How could you _possibly_ know that?” John challenged, maintaining a poker-face as best he could as he pointedly evaded eye-contact with Sherlock.

“’Cause. She was killed back in the 40’s.” He gestured to the screen as though the answer were written in plain sight. “Most murders back then happened to Omegas. They didn’t have any of the suppressants back then, so they were just fair game to everybody. Caused a lot of aggression amongst Alphas. Seriously, look it up. It’s something like 74% of all reported murders were Omegas.”

“Yes, but how do you know _she_ was an Omega?” Sherlock asked, eyes fixated coolly on Wiggins.

“Because.” He laughed. “She was murdered.”

At that comment, John glanced at Sherlock who briefly returned the look before both boys turned away and resumed watching the documentary.

**(MEANWHILE – In the Kitchen)**

“How do we go about telling them?” Mrs. Holmes asked, hand covering her mouth as she considered the papers spread on the table in front of her.

After tapping his fingers absently on the wood for a few seconds, Mycroft grabbed the boys' lab results and read them over one last time:

  * **John Hamish Watson :** [ **O+** ]
  * **William Sherlock Scott Holmes :** [ **A+** ]



 

It had been a week since the gender tests had been submitted to the geneticist, and the results had been mailed to them that afternoon with various pamphlets and additional resources for helping youths navigate the transition into A-B-O puberty. 

Although they were more than eager to support Sherlock during this transition, it was John, they suspected, that would struggle the most. While being diagnosed as Alpha+ and Omega+ was not as desirable as being classified as Beta+, the Alpha gender came with a certain vestige of respect and confidence from its surrounding social realm.

Having an Omega gender, however, came with a heavy stigma that was entirely contrary to John's personality, and which ran the risk of taking the joy and confidence out of John's nature entirely.

“He’ll be devastated.” She said, glancing insecurely between Mycroft and her husband. “We warned him ahead of time, but it’s still going to crush him. It’s not fun for anyone, but especially not for boys. I know John --he'll try to hide it from his school friends.”

“It’s not so much the others we need to worry about.” Mr. Holmes clarified, leaning forward and reaching for Sherlock’s lab results. Placing his glasses over his eyes, he began to read the information. “He might be able to hide it from his schoolmates, but he won't be able to hide it from Sherlock.”

“I don’t think he should feel like he has to.” She remarked. “And John’s never been one to be envious.”

“John’s also always been the leader in their relationship. This will change that dynamic permanently.” Mycroft interjected, sighing in utter exhaustion as he tossed John’s papers back onto the table and ran a weary hand down his face. “We’ll have to separate them during heats. Have you thought about a potential arrangement that can be sustained until John is sixteen?”

“When John has his first, we’ll keep him in the Western wing.” Mr. Holmes proposed after a minute of considering the particulars of the arrangement. “Sherlock can stay in the Eastern wing. We’ll keep them isolated from each other. We can work in shifts until the heat is over. One of us can be here at all times to keep an eye on things.”

“Are you going to isolate John to one room?” Mycroft asked. “It’s best to reduce his area of scent. Alphas have a heightened sense of smell during Omega heats. He should probably stay in one room with a bathroom and be prepared to stay in there the whole time.”

“Good lord, why don’t we just chain the door and bar the windows, then? We can keep the Devil himself out.”

“I’m telling you, Mum --as a Beta, you don’t understand the scent potential of an Alpha or the desperation of an Omega in heat. John shouldn’t be allowed to roam one entire wing of the house. It’s best if he stays in his room.”

“Should we also chain Rottweilers to his door? Station a sniper? _Completely_ demoralize him?”

“He’ll be fine. It’s for two days, for Christ’s sake.” Mycroft placated, leaning back in his chair. “John’s been known to sleep for two days at a time anyway. Bring him three meals a day, supply him with snacks, and give him one of the guest rooms with a full bath. It might even be a vacation from that brunette hellion.”

“And what will we tell the school?” She asked, irritation rising. “John would sooner die than let it be known that he’s being pulled out for heats.”

“We’ll lie.” Mr. Holmes offered, though frowning at the suggestion. Habitually an honest man, he found it unappealing to encourage his kids to lie to avoid a problem. But for John, he would make an exception. “We’ll take him out of school when he has heats. We’ll pull Sherlock out as well to take the speculation away from John. We’ll cite family vacations or various doctors’ appointments. If the heats only last two days, we can make it work until he's sixteen.”

“For two years?” She sputtered sarcastically. “It doesn’t seem realistic.”

“It’ll have to be.” Mycroft said, folding his hands and leaning forward. “Worst case scenario, we can give John the choice to tell the school or not. He may find it worthwhile in the end if he gets the excused absences instead of having to maintain a constant lie.”

“I agree. It should be John’s choice if he wants to tell the school.”

“And what of his joining the army?” Mycroft asked, addressing the large, bumbling elephant in the room.

“The army could just be a phase.”

“And if it’s not?”

“Then we’ll cross that bridge when we get there.” Mr. Holmes insisted. “In the meantime, let’s deal with the immediate issues. There are too many variables with the army to address it now.”

“I’ll talk to John -–tell him what to expect, what to prepare for.” Mycroft explained. “I have the experience to coach him through this. You two can talk to Sherlock. I’ll follow up with additional information if he's willing to talk to me.”

Nodding their heads in agreement, a moment of silence passed before Mr. Holmes finally spoke up:

“We’ll have to call John-Mark.” He stated, tone grim and apprehensive. “He has a legal right to know this information.”

“I won’t speak to him.” Mrs. Holmes bit, mouth running thin and white. “John can make that decision himself. If he chooses not to, I won’t pressure him to do it.”

“Ada, you know John won’t willingly speak to John-Mark.”

“If you don’t want to talk to him, you need to send him a courtesy text.” Mycroft interrupted. “He needs to know that you two still consider him to be John’s primary authority. If he thinks you two withheld information, he might be inclined to reclaim his rights to John on the basis that he thinks you two are threatening his claim.”

“I agree.” Mr. Holmes replied after a second of consideration, nodding affirmatively to himself. “The most important thing is to keep John under our roof. If John-Mark thinks we’re being deceitful, he’ll take John back home. None of the rest of it will matter if we lose our grip on John.”

“I hate that man.” She muttered. “And to think we used to be good _friends_ with him. After what he did, he should not have the right to be involved in any of John’s affairs.”

“But he _does_ have the right.” Mr. Holmes replied, reaching for her hand. “He is still John’s father, Ada. If we want to keep John here, we must continue to assert that idea to John-Mark.”

After a minute of tense consideration, Mrs. Holmes finally reached into her purse and pulled out her phone. Scrolling through her messages, she found her last correspondence with John-Mark Watson with a date of three months prior.

After a minute of deliberating with herself and considering her thoughts, she began to compose a short, quick text:

“ **John-Mark, due to laws governing A/B/O national database, we moved forward with John’s gender testing and sent specimen to St. L Genetics. We have results. Call John for information. – Ada** ”

“What will you say to him?” Mrs. Holmes asked, turning towards Mycroft. “What will you tell him? Will you be considerate of him?”

“I’ll tell him the facts.” Mycroft offered factually. “I will tell him what to expect, what his body will do --what his mind will do. I’ll explain to him the importance of being honest with us about his concerns, and I’ll stress the need to stay isolated during his heats to prevent any accidents.”

“Sherlock will be a terror if he’s kept from John.” Mr. Holmes followed, eyeing Ada in exhaustion. “His pubescent Alpha behaviors have been bad enough. I can’t imagine how he’ll be when he’s in rut.”

“It’s hard to imagine Sherlock being ‘in rut’ at all.” She speculated. “He’s always been so adamant about being a hermit. He thinks he can still maintain control of himself even if he’s in rut.”

“He’s in for a _rude_ awakening.” Mycroft replied with a snort as he reached for the daily paper. “The first time another Alpha comes on to John, the little hell-fairy might actually get charged for homicide --and that doesn’t necessarily have anything to do with sexual attraction towards John, either. Alphas are fiercely protective of platonic Omega relationships as well, so John was screwed either way.”

“This might be…difficult to navigate.” Mrs. Holmes said, massaging her temples as she imagined a future with John and Sherlock as teenagers, at school, hormones raging, no suppressants. The potential for disaster was almost ready and waiting to happen. “We need to prepare as best we can.”

“In reality, none of us has control over anything, be it our bodies, lives, or other events.” Mr. Holmes commented. “Sherlock has had the luxury of a stable life with minimal disruption to his expectations. It might do him some good to learn to cope with it now. If he doesn’t, their relationship could be compromised.”

“You don’t think Sherlock and John would ever…?” Mrs. Holmes asked, glancing at the men across from her in the hope that they would fill the blanks.

“It’s a possibility.” Mr. Holmes said, stirring a dose of milk into his Earl Grey. “Though I never really considered the implications of that before. None of us thought John would be Omega positive. It’s hard to imagine they would ever be physically intimate with each other, but things have changed. _They’ve_ changed.”

“There is love there. We all know that.” Mrs. Holmes commented factually. “Though what kind of love it is remains to be seen.”

“The bottom line is that Sherlock and John will feel desperate for…intercourse whether they want it or not.” Mycroft interjected, somewhat cringing at the very idea. “We have to remain diligent in keeping them separated during the heats. If they share a heat against their will, it will likely damage their relationship beyond repair. Please trust me when I say this. I have experience with the intensity of this feeling.”

Before the conversation could continue any further, however, the three were interrupted by the vibration of Mrs. Holmes’ phone on the table.

“ **Thnx. Ill call tonight. –JM** ”

“What did he say?” Mr. Holmes asked, craning his head to see the screen. “Was he amenable?”

“Yes.” She said, tossing the phone in her purse. “He’s going to call John tonight. It’s in John’s hands.”

“Then we probably need to—”

“I’m _starving_.” Came a booming voice as John, Sherlock, and Wiggins walked through the living room and into the kitchen. “Do we still have that Tikka Masala from Mycroft’s birthday dinner? That stuff was _so_ good.”

At the table, Mrs. Holmes gracefully grabbed the lab results and turned them over.

“It’s on the second shelf, John. Hello, Billy.” She said, pausing to smile at Wiggins as she gestured at the refrigerator. “No, love, the second shelf.”

“Hello, Mrs. Holmes. And to you, too, Mr. Holmes.” Billy replied politely.

“Afternoon, Billiam.” Mr. Holmes saluted, referring to Bill by the nickname he had given him the year before.

“Thanks, Mrs. H.” John called from inside the refrigerator. “You want any, Wiggy?”

“What is it?” Wiggins asked, lifting the lid of the container John held out to him. “It looks weird.”

“So do you, but we still keep you around.” John quipped, a small smile betraying the barb laced in that sentence. “Here, just try it.”

“Look, it says here that there was something wrong with her vagina.” Sherlock said, face buried in his phone as he heaved himself onto the counter, eyes focused on additional photos of The Black Dahlia crime scene.

“I beg your pardon?” Mrs. Holmes snapped, turning towards Sherlock with a look of sharp disapproval.

“Elizabeth Short. There was something wrong with her vagina.” Sherlock reiterated, though glancing up when his mother failed to process the information. “Elizabeth Short? The Black Dahlia? Famous American murder case from the 40’s? The anatomy of her vagina was rumored to be distorted.”

“I have the same problem.” Wiggins quipped, earning an ill-advised burst of laughter from John as he swatted at the back of Wiggins’ head.

“I told you not to watch that documentary.” She scolded half-heartedly. “I don't want to hear a word if you three end up having nightmares like you did with ‘Silence of the Lambs.’ Two grown boys having to sleep with the light on for a week is embarrassing.”

“Don’t forget the time they watched ‘The Ring.’” Mr. Holmes quipped. “They actually slept in the living room for _two whole nights_ just to be near us.”

“John slept in the living room for two nights. I was fine upstairs.”

“With the light on, of course.” Mr. Holmes said, flashing a smile at brunette.

“Think of it this way.” John interrupted, mouth full of food as he nudged the refrigerator door shut with his hip. “Yes, we watched a movie about a murder that we ‘ _technically_ ’ weren’t supposed to watch, but what if we were the ones _committing_ the murders? We’re actually saints when you look at it that way.”

“His logic is sound.” Sherlock replied boredly, still scrolling through the Wikipedia article on Elizabeth Short.

“Yes, but I’m _not_ looking at it that way.”

“This is _so_ good.” Wiggins said, dipping his finger in the Masala sauce.

“If you keep disobeying me, _I’m_ going to be the one committing the murders, angel face.” She replied, tone disapproving but affectionate as she placed a hand on John’s cheek and walked into the living room.

“What is this made of?” Wiggins asked, reaching around John’s shoulder this time to grab another piece of chicken out of the carton.

“Here.” John said, picking a piece of chicken from the rice to give to Wiggins.

“Thanks.” Wiggins said, though not before sidling behind John and leaning close into John’s neck to reach for the offered chicken.

John nearly flinched at the contact, and he found himself turning and glancing up at Wiggins who suddenly and unconsciously began sniffing at the juncture between John’s neck and shoulder.

And in that suspended moment of tension, John suddenly found himself floating in a sort of primal twilight zone. His eyes were utterly fixed to Wiggins, though there seemed to be a conversation happening between the two of them that neither could realistically comprehend. Wiggins eyes flicked nervously between John’s neck and his eyes, and John found himself entirely unable to break the bizarre, unspoken heat between he and Wiggins.

“I--” Wiggins began, tongue flicking over his lips. “I’m—”

John’s chest was heaving and Wiggins merely continued to struggle with his words, focus captured in an almost trance-like intensity on John.

That is, until Sherlock slid off of the counter, and Mycroft’s chair scraped the floor as he shot up from the table and grabbed Sherlock’s arm, physically pulling him back from the other two boys.

“Mycroft?” Mr. Holmes questioned, focus torn from his afternoon reading by Mycroft’s abrupt beeline for Sherlock. With an expression on his face that signaled confusion, concern, and realization, Mr. Holmes watched as the foreign power-play of Alpha-Omega dynamics unfolded in front of him. The most accurate experience he could equate it to was the feeling of being the only person in a group of people who spoke English. From his perspective, the conversation between John, Bill, Sherlock, and Mycroft had been an entirely silent exchange, but an exchange in which _so_ much was said.

“Alright, Bill.” Mycroft chirped, plastering a cheery and disingenuous smile on his face. His grip was strong as Sherlock held an intense and steely scrutiny to Wiggins, momentarily impeded by Mycroft’s advance. “We have some family things to discuss, so it might be best for you to come back tomorrow.”

“Yeah, no problem.” Wiggins said uncertainly, eyes held intensely to Sherlock’s own as he finally stepped away. “Yeah, no problem. I’m off.”

And like a hawk targeting its prey, Sherlock tracked Wiggins’ every step until he heard the click of the lock punctuate his exit.

“I don’t know what that was.” John said after a heated second, misery evident on his face as his mind screamed “Omega” behavior over the silence of the room. “I’m sorry. That was weird.”

“Don’t be sorry. That wasn’t your fault.” Mycroft said. “That’s a common behavior in the A/O world.”

“What was he doing?” Sherlock asked, eyes still following Wiggins as he walked through the back garden.

“Don’t worry about it.”

“Mycroft.” John pleaded, a small but unassuming tone of desperation evident in his voice.

“It could be a fluke.” Mycroft said, sighing at the realization that this was probably the most appropriate place and time to smoothly segue into the secondary gender conversation between the two boys. “But it seemed as if he was checking your status.”

“My _status_?” John asked, brow furrowed. “What the _fuck_?”

“John.” Mr. Holmes scolded, rising to his feet and putting the paper down.

“Don’t be alarmed. It’s happened to me many times.” Mycroft explained, tone level as he attempted to neutralize John’s fear over the issue. “It’s a common practice between un-bonded Alphas and Omegas. He was simply scenting you to see if you had ever received a bond bite, though I suspect he was unaware that’s what he was doing. Like you two, he’s on the verge of presenting as well. It’s all new to him.”

“A bond bite.” John repeated, looking as though he had received a real punch to the gut.

“Yes, John. I’m afraid so.”

“So, I _am_ an Omega.”

Observing the blond boy with a very real sadness, Mycroft could see the beginnings of tears welling in his eyes as he silently answered John’s question. Looking toward his father, they simply nodded at each other in total understanding as Mr. Holmes grabbed the lab results off the table, wrapped an arm around Sherlock’s shoulders, and turned him away from John.

“Come on, let’s have a talk.” Mr. Holmes said cheerily, steering Sherlock into the direction of their bedroom. “I think it’s about that time.”

Although both boys knew the conversation was coming and had mostly decided to go quietly in the hope that they could end the conversation as quickly as possible, John still felt the tears brimming as Mycroft unintentionally confirmed his most-feared suspicions.

“John—” Sherlock began, glancing back towards the disconsolate blond.

“Will be absolutely fine. He’s in good hands.” Mr. Holmes soothed with a grin, shuffling Sherlock into the next room with a general sense of good humour. “We’ll make this quick, yeah?”

“You ready?” Mycroft asked, turning to John with a small smile as his brother and father exited the room. His tone was soft and full of understanding as John began to cry silent tears in front of him.

When Mycroft first learned of his status as an Omega+ individual, he did much the same thing in front of his parents who were there to support him and guide him in the best way that they knew how. Despite that unconditional love, however, they were entirely out of their depth with the complexities and difficulties of being part of the A/O demographic, so much of Mycroft's knowledge had to be learned by trial and error.

Mycroft had learned through brutal experience how to thrive under the given circumstances; and though experience was often the best teacher, he would be damned if John didn’t get the best fighting chance that life had to offer. His goal wasn't to pave the way for John or to neutralize the hardships of experience, but rather to prevent John from losing his joy and his fire in the process.

Desperately trying to will the tears away, John simply nodded, wiped his nose, and waited for Mycroft to continue.

“This is what you need to know.” Mycroft began. “As an Omega.”


	6. That Summer; The Last

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Okay, last chapter of their thirteenth year! Hope you guys enjoyed this era of their lives. Next chapter starts their fifteenth year, and we will probably linger around the ages of 15, 16, 17, and 18 for the rest of the story. Mystrade will also be introduced soon. Be warned: the chapters following this chapter will definitely have a heavier approach to underage sexual content, so please tread lightly. Hope you guys enjoy! Thanks for sticking around thus far! :)
> 
> Warnings: This chapter begins to introduce very mild sexual themes and possibly some hints at non-consensual behaviours. Please use discretion if those things bother you.

“And there are…'things' I can use if it gets too bad?” John asked uncertainly, having maintained a perma-blush on his face for the duration of the whole conversation.

“There are toys you can use.” Mycroft clarified, keeping his tone and expression entirely neutral to spare John any sense of personal discomfort with the conversation. He wanted Sherlock and John to feel comfortable with speaking about these things, which meant he had to suppress his own sense of embarrassment at the infernal characteristics of the gene. “When you have your first, we’ll see how you feel about getting some of your own.”

“Will they hurt?”

“The first few times, maybe.” He offered factually, finding the importance in being totally transparent with John about the reality of heat. “But you don’t need to feel any pressure to use them. They’re there for _your_ benefit.”

It had been nearly an hour since Mycroft and his parents had taken the boys aside to give them the dreaded discussion. Although John cried silently for a few understandable minutes in the beginning, he was able to regain his composure with a few tissues and a tall glass of Mrs. Holmes’ iced lemonade after the shock of his diagnosis faded away.

Mycroft had spent the majority of the conversation explaining the physical aspects of an Omega in heat: the intensity, the natural lubrication, the suppressants, the knotting, and the act of the heat sex itself. He also briefly expounded upon the social perceptions John might face in addition to the importance of maintaining a consistent knowledge of his heat schedule. His intention wasn’t to intimidate John, but he wanted the boy to value his safety and care above all else. Overall, they had managed to cover all of the basics, and Mycroft had encouraged John to ask as many questions as he needed to in order to feel good about what to expect.

“How bad does the cramping hurt?"

“It can be intense, especially the first time.” He replied with a somewhat melancholic half-smile. “But you _can_ endure it, John. It’s very possible. Millions have done it before you, and millions will do it after. It’s not really a painful feeling, either. It's more like a deep discomfort --an ache, really.”

“So...it’s like going to the dentist?”

“Somewhat.” Mycroft agreed with a tilt of his head. “The drilling and the prodding and the scraping doesn’t feel good on your teeth, but it will never kill you. It doesn’t even hurt, necessarily –it’s just uncomfortable. That's sort of how heat feels.”

“This just _sucks_.” John said, laying his head despondently into the crook of his elbow. “Sherlock won’t have to use weird toys.”

“Rest assured, John. Sherlock will have _plenty_ of his own problems to worry about.” Mycroft said, his tone a bit foreboding as he considered how his extremely private younger brother would fare under the throes of a rut. “Alpha ruts are just as intense as Omega heats. He’s always preferred to be alone, so this will be just as embarrassing for him as it is for you. You know that.”

Feeling somewhat scolded, John looked absently at his feet and spoke up again:

"Do you have any Alpha friends?"

"A few, yes --a few very good friends, actually."

"When you went into heat, did it bother them?"

"It never 'bothered' them in an annoyance sort of way, but there _was_ an understanding that it would be best for all parties involved if we separated for a few days. It was just a precautionary measure designed to consider everybody's best interests."

"Do you think--" John tried, though aborting that thought entirely. "Nevermind."

When John merely cast him a quick glance before averting his eyes, Mycroft began to suspect that John was battling with an internal issue that was more taxing to a boy his age than just the simple shamelessness of the Omega gene in general. The insecurity seemed to be rooted in something a little more complex, or perhaps something more specific than what he was being able to hit.

And when he caught sight of John subtly peering through the French doors that led to his parents’ bedroom, it occurred to him what might be ailing the blond.

“When you’re in heat, Sherlock might act like he wants to share your heat with you.” Mycroft said, tone firm but gentle as John ran scarlet from neck to ears. Although John would not make eye contact, Mycroft would not be surprised if the boy was desperately trying to subdue another round of tears from welling. “He may even become aggressive with you in a sensual sort of way. But you know, John, that Sherlock would _never_ do anything to hurt you. I have every confidence that he will respect you. If he becomes aroused or territorial, it is _only_ because his body is responding to yours. It says nothing about what his heart or his mind will do, and I believe those to be the most important things to him.”

And when John buried his face fully in the crook of his elbow, Mycroft simply stood up, walked over to John, and began to rub small circles on his back. Although Mycroft hadn’t done this to John since he was a little boy, Mycroft acknowledged that at the age of thirteen, John was still much more of a child than he was a teenager.

And this change in their lives _was_ devastating. It compromised their freedom, their identity, and the dynamics of their entire relationship. And if John needed to cry privately about the embarrassment, Mycroft would encourage and support John through every tide and ebb of sadness from here until the end.

“What if he doesn’t want me to stay?” John asked, wiping at the small tears that dotted his lids. “It’s fun here and my Dad--”

Unable to continue, John left the idea unspoken.

Mycroft could only close his eyes as he struggled to keep his own heart from breaking. The very _thought_ of John feeling this way was absurd. He should have identified this concern in John before he started to highlight the other hardships of Omega life. He was so absorbed in projecting his own situation onto John that he failed to recognize the added element of John's fear over his relationship with Sherlock instead of just the devastation of being Omega positive.

Coming around to face John, he placed his hand under the boy’s chin and lifted his watery face upwards:

“My brother would sooner relocate himself than to have you be sent away.” Mycroft replied, smiling genuinely while knowing that his assertion was true. “I know he can be a bit prickly and ungrateful towards you, but he cares deeply for you. He has always had a soft spot for you, despite the air of indifference he tries to maintain. He'll never tell you that, though.”

“He _hates_ when the girls at school talk about kissing him --even the pretty ones like Irene Adler. If he hates that, he’ll hate me, too.” John said, wiping his nose with the sleeve of his shirt. “There’s no way he’ll want me around if I’m making him want to do… _that_.”

“If the heats ever become a problem, there are a hundred things we can try before we consider the thought of sending you home.” Mycroft said, cradling the back of John’s head with his hand. “Sherlock would very likely follow you there anyway, so _tough_. You're stuck with us for the long run, Soldier John.”

With an impish attempt at a smile, the two boys were then interrupted by the French doors to the living room swinging open. From there, Mr. and Mrs. Holmes entered followed by a miserable-looking Sherlock who had obviously been on the receiving end of his own detailed conversation. Quickly wiping his tears away, John attempted to conceal all evidence that he had become emotional; however, Mrs. Holmes cast Mycroft a concerned glance when she caught sight of John’s puffy eyes and red cheeks.

When Mycroft sent her a subtle thumbs-up in return, she immediately understood the situation and attempted to change the heaviness of the atmosphere.

What was done was done, and there was no need to speak any further about it.

“Well, I think we’ve had enough seriousness for one afternoon.” She chirped. “I was thinking we should order pizza for dinner. I'm just not feeling Caesar salads tonight. What do you say, Sinclair? Should we order some pizzas?”

“I say a definitive ‘yes’ to that suggestion.” He replied, earning excited smiles from his two youngest boys. It was an extremely rare occurrence for the Holmes family to order pizza, so it was always considered a special treat when they were able to do it.

“Then pizza it will be. It is law.” She declared, slapping her hand against the table. “That okay with you boys?”

“Can we get pepperoni?” John asked, a hopeful grin now betraying his previous sadness.

“Here, here!” Mr. Holmes called from the living room where he was currently watching the 4:00 news. 

“We could watch a new movie as well?" Mycroft suggested, hoping to further lighten the mood. "I'm caught up on my studies for today, so I think I could spare some time to run into town and get a good one."

"And maybe you could stop for some mint chocolate-chip ice cream to top it all off?” Mrs. Holmes asked, looking at Sherlock from the corner of her eye.

At that suggestion, Sherlock’s eyes lit up. Despite his tough exterior, Sherlock had the most aggressive sweet tooth of anyone John knew, and his favorite ice cream was mint chocolate-chip.

“Wow, I’ll take that as a yes.” She laughed, earning an annoyed smile from Sherlock. “Nothing saves the day like pepperoni pizza and ice cream.”

And with that plan of action, John and Sherlock decided that maybe it wasn’t the _worst_ day they would ever have.

**(THREE HOURS LATER – THE CREEK)**

After a half hour of dodging awkward glances and fumbling around at attempts to start conversations with each other, John and Sherlock finally fell back into their usual equilibrium when John noticed that Miss Miskelly had taken her German Shepherd, “Pilot,” to the groomers again.

Sherlock and John had always kept a vigilant eye on Pilot’s visits to the groomer, because the groomer was located several hours away and it afforded them the opportunity to sneak into Miss Miskelly’s garden and walk to the creek that ran behind her house. It was a good-sized creek with slight rapids that ran over the rocks and housed little silver fish in the summer.

Their favorite species to catch, however, was the common river frog. Despite its name, they had never actually managed to catch one before, and Sherlock had been interested in dissecting the frog species to see if he could identify various organs and bones from memory.

“Okay, it says here that they only stay around bodies of water during breeding seasons.” John said, tripping over a rock as he held one of Sherlock’s text-books in front of himself. “Is it time for frogs to breed?”

“It should be. We’re in a seasonal transition between spring and summer.” Sherlock said, rolling a particularly large rock out of the sand where it tumbled into the water below. “But some frogs only breed during colder temperatures, so I don’t know.”

“Ugh. Why would you want to breed in the cold?” John asked before jumping off of the edge of the shore where he landed in the creek with a splash. “Things start to shrink in the cold.”

“I don’t think toads have that problem.” Sherlock explained. 

“I know I do.” John laughed, sending a mischievous grin over to Sherlock.

“I guess you won’t be able to mate with any toads, then.” Sherlock quipped as he continued rolling rocks out of the lining of the riverbed. “Considering they were your last hope, I actually feel kind of sorry for yo—"

Before Sherlock could carry through with that insult, John grabbed the lapel of his collar and yanked the brunette face-first off of the bank where he fell gracelessly on all fours into the water. Sprawling to his knees, Sherlock cursed and sent John a look of shock and anger as the front of his shirt, trousers, and hair emerged dripping with water.

“You bastard!” Sherlock called, struggling to stand to his feet as John bent over laughing in front of him. “Mummy will kill me if I ruin this, you  _ape_!”

“No, she’ll kill _me_.” John said, still struggling to contain his laughter. “But it will be worth it just to have seen the look on your face. You were scared shitless!”

“Keep laughing, _Hamish_.” Sherlock spit, a smirk stretching across his face when John suddenly ran white and rigid.

“How—" John tried, though utterly failing to form a complete sentence. “Who told you that?!”

“Nobody. Saw it on your lab results. John ‘Hamish’ Watson.” Sherlock teased, voice full of arrogance and amusement. “I’ve been trying to figure that out for _years_. I never understood why you wouldn't tell me, but I can see now why you tried so hard to hide it.”

“How about you shut the hell up, you walking trust fund?”

“How about you _make_ me, John Hamish Watson?”

“You got it.” John said, wading quickly through the water with a grin on his face. “Start running, you _priss_.”

When Sherlock attempted to claw his way back to the shore with a look of doe-like fear, John was able to tackle the brunette from behind where they both landed with a hard grunt on the sand and rocks.

"Say Hamish again. I _dare_ you." John challenged with a laugh as he pinned Sherlock beneath him. "And here I thought Alphas were supposed to be the ones doing the dominating."

"Enjoy it while you can." Sherlock quipped. "I'm taller than you now. It won't be long before I tower over you. This is actually a pity win."

"My entire friendship with you is a pity win."

"And somehow, I'm still the one losing."

"You're a train-wreck."

Although both boys were still laughing from the adrenaline, John found himself suddenly entranced by the boy beneath him.

Sherlock’s curls were obsidian and wet and plastered elegantly to his face, and the pewter greys from the overcast seemed to electrify the flecks of cornflower and sea foam in his eyes. His shirt, both white and egregiously expensive, were dripping and stuck to the pale contours of his abdomen, giving the clothes an off-white color where they sucked his skin. And his Botticelli mouth, both shiny and turning purple from the cold, was parted slightly where he panted from the chase.

It was during this ordinary moment between the two of them that John could almost tangibly feel two elements of their dynamic changing; and it would only be in his adulthood that he would eventually realize what those two things were:

One, the innocence of his childhood was finally being chained to the present instead of moving forward with him. This was his stop.

Two, the normalcy of his relationship with his best friend was being utterly stripped from his hands. He knew their relationship had always been easy because he had never had to stop and consider whether it was easy or not. Never again would it be straightforward and uncomplicated.

And then the sobriety descended heavy and unwarranted as it brought with it the storm clouds of the future climate. Sherlock seemed to sense the change in mood as well as he stared up at John with a slightly-furrowed brow, laughter now completely dissolved.

“Mycroft said I might feel weird about you one day.” John spoke quickly, hating every word that tumbled carelessly out of his mouth, though feeling like he desperately needed to say something about the obvious.

“I know.” Sherlock said, chest heaving as the blond sat atop his torso.

“If I start to feel weird about you, will you want me to leave?” John asked fearfully, swallowing heavily as his heart beat brutally against the bones of its cage. He should have trusted Mycroft’s judgement on the issue, but he needed to hear it from Sherlock, because his future hinged on the direction _their_ relationship would swing. The idea of being sent back to his home because his friendship with Sherlock had gone bad left him with such a lead weight of fear that he needed to hear Sherlock say the words to him, whatever they were.

“No.” Sherlock said, turning away from the blond, clearly having entertained this same thought as well. “And if they make you leave, I'm going with you.”

Exhaling, John dropped his shoulders in relief at the resolve behind Sherlock’s words. From the certainty in his tone, it was obvious that Sherlock had been plagued by the same future obstacles as John had.

“Can you get off?” Sherlock then interrupted, a heated blush running up his neck and shoulders as he averted his eyes to the side. Much to John’s embarrassment, one of Sherlock’s hands had found its way to his hip, though he suspected Sherlock was entirely unaware of it.

“Sorry.” John replied, standing off of the soaking brunette. Reaching an arm toward his best friend, he hauled Sherlock to his feet.

“ _John! Sherlock!_ ” Came a distant call, and both boys turned towards their house where Mrs. Holmes stood on the back patio waving her phone in the air. “ _John, you have a phone call!_ ”

“Oh no.” John groaned, closing his eyes and dropping his head back in utter dread. The only person who ever called him was the one person he didn't enjoy speaking to. “I bet it’s Dad. He's probably calling about the lab results.”

“How does he know about it?” Sherlock asked, eyes narrowing in something akin to annoyance.

“Mycroft told me he has to know. Something to do with laws or something.” John explained. “I don’t want to talk to him.”

“ _John! Phone call!_ ” Came her voice again.

Running back to the courtyard, John reached for the phone in Mrs. Holmes' hand as she eyed Sherlock in confusion when he appeared behind John with dripping hair and clothes.

“Hello?” John asked into the phone, sending Sherlock a wary glance when his suspicions were confirmed. “Hey, Dad.”

“I’m not going to ask this time.” Mrs. Holmes whispered to Sherlock, nodding at his water-logged appearance as John paced nervously on the patio. “But you do need to go and change before you get sick. Go inside and call for Mycroft or Dad to bring you a towel. I don’t want water on the floors.”

“I’m going to wait for John.”

“They’re having a private conversation, Sherlock.”

“I’m going to wait.” Sherlock reiterated, tone slightly more rigid. When his mother sent him a stern look, he visibly softened. “I’m sorry. I’d like to wait until he’s done.”

“We’ll talk about it later.” She said, mentally reminding herself that Sherlock’s transition into Alpha puberty meant that she would have to pick and choose her battles lest she become endlessly frustrated with his newfound temperament. With this new hostility from Sherlock, she was going to have to identify and prioritize the issues that were non-negotiable.

Closing the door, she left the two boys alone with John giving clipped courtesy replies to his father as Sherlock waited quietly in the background.

“Yeah, he’s good. He’s back from uni, so that’s fun.” John said, trying very hard to remain respectful and polite despite his deep discomfort with his father. It had been more than a year since he had last seen his father, so the familiarity between them now felt strained and foreign. It many ways, it was like speaking to a distant relative instead of his own father. “Yeah, we took the tests last week.”

When John sent Sherlock a quick glance, Sherlock folded his arms and leaned against the patio table, eagerly waiting for this conversation to be over.

“No, it’s fine. Yeah. Yeah. No, hah. Not an Alpha.” John said, turning away from Sherlock. “I got Beta. I'm not really surprised, though.”

Snapping his head up, Sherlock observed the back of John’s head as he considered the reasons why John would feel the need to lie about his gender.

“Yeah, I’m okay with that. Mm-hm. Uhm…no, I don’t think so, actually. Hopefully I can before school starts.” John said, projecting a false sense of excitement. “Sounds good. Okay. Yeah, I love you too. Bye, Dad.”

Ending the call, John turned back to Sherlock with an expression that signified he was mostly relieved that the conversation was over.

“You lied to him.”

“I did.” John confirmed. “But that’s okay. It’s fine.”

“Why?”

“Because.” John said, eyes dropping. “I just had to.”

“Are you going to tell me why?” Sherlock asked, annoyance evident in his tone.

“You don’t have to know everything.” John snapped, earning a look of surprise from Sherlock in return. Visibly back-tracking, John exhaled in frustration and tried again: “Sorry. Just…can you let it be? Just this time?”

“Fine.” Sherlock said, eyeing John with a pointed look of skepticism. “But don’t get used to it.”

“You boys hungry?” Came a voice, and John and Sherlock turned to find Mr. Holmes peeking his head out the door. “Food’s here!”

Now that it was getting dark outside, John could see Mrs. Holmes and Mycroft placing slices of pizza on their plates in the kitchen. Bags of ice cream were sitting on the dining room table next to a stack of dessert bowls, and Mr. Holmes had the movie set up and ready to be played in the living room for all of them to watch together. And when John saw the soft, orange light from the kitchen spilling onto the patio, he found that his previous distress didn’t seem so heavy in light of the fact that life and the things inside of life could still be fun in the face of cataclysmic change.

In essence, he was _home_.

“Coming!” John called, a grin replacing his previous uncertainty. “You coming?”

“Yes.” Sherlock said, following behind John with an excitement of his own.

***********************

It would be two weeks and four days from this night that John would enter into his first heat cycle. It would be a week and one day after that that Sherlock would enter into his first rut.

John would spend that first heat alone in the guest bedroom on the Western wing of the Holmes estate just as they had planned. He would have ample food and provisions routinely brought to his room, and he would even have the blessing of Mycroft’s constant support and companionship to guide him through the turbulence of his first heat before Mycroft would return to University at the end of summer. This heat would last for two days in total, and he would cry for most of it as Mycroft would sit with him and reassure him that the discomfort was temporary and the next heat would be easier. It was during this heat, as well, that Sherlock would stay awake for a total of forty-eight hours, utterly unable to distract himself from the crying of the boy across the house.

A week following John’s heat, Sherlock would enter into his first rut cycle with sharp deviations of intense anger and giddy playfulness. He would prowl the flat at night, locking the doors and bolting the windows in John and Mycroft’s rooms. He would shout abuse at John and disrespect his parents, and he would demand to be the first person to answer the door when visitors came to the house. During this rut, he would wake up multiple times a night with painful erections and soaked pants, and any object that contained a residual smell of John’s heat would trigger another. And for the first time in his life, he would grab the shirt of John’s that he had stored in his pillowcase, crush it to his nose, wrap a hand around his cock, and bring himself to his first blinding orgasm. After, he would cry from the guilt and the shame.

Throughout the following year, they would manage to maintain an extremely tenuous and fragile grasp on this balancing act, but they would make it work. 

Somehow, someway.

When John looked back on the summer of their thirteenth year, he remembered it as the summer that changed everything in an irreversible and aching sort of way. Although the changes it presented in their lives would soon prove to be utterly torrential and seismic in nature, John made the choice to value the simplicity and the joy of that summer above all the rest of it. Like watching a film reel, he would look fondly on his memories of playing “East Wind” and going on adventures with Sherlock and the neighborhood kids. He would remember trips to the creek, movie nights with the Holmes family, getting into trouble with Wiggins, errands with Ada, summer reading, chores, driving Sinclair’s Jaguar for the first time, and every piece of little life in between.

 But most of all, he would remember the unrealized happiness of being able to do absolutely anything or nothing with Sherlock when it was _always_ easy and _always_  taken for granted.

For in the summer of their fifteenth year, John would soon realize that the plates they had been spinning together were about to fall and shatter to pieces at their feet.


	7. A Friend Thing.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, this is the first chapter of the "Age 15 and 16" segment of the story. This is also a shorter chapter with less plot development, but I had to break it down this way to keep the flow of the story from becoming disrupted. Hope you guys enjoy!

Pulling on the refrigerator door, Mycroft began to inspect its contents with a sinking feeling of disappointment. His mother had been on a diet for the last three months, so all sugar and carbohydrate foods in the house had apparently been replaced by rabbit food and pencil shavings. Reaching behind the milk for a carton on the bottom shelf, he smiled to himself when he saw a take-away box marked “Sherlock” with a barely-touched portion of chicken alfredo and garlic bread inside of it.

“How sad for you, Sherly.” Mycroft said, closing the fridge with a push of his hip. “Should have eaten it when you had the chance.”

It had been thirty minutes since he had arrived home from university for the summer and there was not a soul to be heard in their house. Although he knew his parents were on their annual trip to the States to experience a popular line-dancing festival, he had expected to find John and Sherlock somewhere within the vicinity of the estate.

The house was eerily quiet with nothing save for the ticking of the grandfather clock to punctuate the surrounding silence. It was nice, actually, to finally experience some time to himself. His previous year at university had proven to be his most intense year of study yet, and he knew the tranquility would all go to hell the minute his parents returned from Oklahoma tomorrow.

Throughout the past year, he had received multiple calls from his parents in regards to managing the fragile dynamic developing between John and Sherlock. The system they had created two years prior had worked remarkably well in the beginning, but the longer John was expected to endure the heats without suppressants, the more his patience seemed to wane. The constant heats made Sherlock a near-fatal hazard as well, and his parents were gradually losing their depth with every month that passed. Recently, the problems were migrating into the context of their school lives, which was something that had not seemed to be a problem the year before.

He had painstakingly worked through that first heat with John, offering as much support and advice as he could without infringing on the boy’s privacy. It was heartbreaking, honestly, to see John struggle against himself so painfully, but Mycroft had every confidence that John could survive a few more heats until his sixteenth birthday arrived. Despite his confidence, however, he had been receiving far too many calls as of late due to “instances” of fighting between Sherlock and John. The fights weren’t actually normal disputes, but rather Sherlock stepping out of bounds in regards to John. John, who was always the outgoing leader of the two, resisted these attempts made by Sherlock, which often prompted heated arguments between the two of them.

Overall, their patience with each other was wearing thin, and it was made all the worse by the unbridled heat and rut cycles they had to endure within the same living space. Mycroft’s decision to return home this summer was mostly motivated by the fact that he wanted to give his parents a break and work with the boys to determine what he could do to alleviate some of the tension. His parents had a fundamental misunderstanding of Alpha-Omega behaviour patterns, but he could reasonably understand _what_ was happening and _why_ it was happening.

More than anything, he wanted to prevent John from leaving their home. As the months progressed, the exhaustion and discomfort John felt being around an active Alpha while he was in heat was taking a toll on his resilience. Two years before, John was terrified that he would be made to leave if the heats became a problem for Sherlock. Now, Mycroft suspected that John was toying with the idea of leaving just to spare himself a few months of constant discomfort. He would never willingly allow John to return to the care of his father even for a duration of six months, but it was ultimately John's prerogative. If he wanted to leave, they could not legall stop him.

Before he could carry his takeaway to the living room to watch the afternoon news segment, he was interrupted by a formidable series of knocks on the front door. His parents weren’t due to return until tomorrow and both John and Sherlock had keys to all the doors in the house, so he was somewhat confused by the interruption.

Turning the corner, a sharp jolt of anxiety shot down his spine when he looked through the glass door and saw red and blue lights flashing against the outside walls. Opening the door, he was instantly relieved when he saw both John and Sherlock, bruised but alive, standing in front of him with a police officer at their backs.

“What happened?” Mycroft asked, voice slightly shaking and complexion paling. “Are you two okay?”

“They’re both fine, just a little worse for wear.” The officer smiled. “This one’s got a bit of a bloody nose, but we had our responder clear him. Nothing’s broken.”

Reaching for Sherlock’s face, Mycroft tipped his chin upwards and observed the dried blood rimmed around his nostrils. With a scolded expression, Sherlock jerked his head out of Mycroft's grasp and turned away.

Both Sherlock and John looked utterly miserable and entirely furious at someone or something.

“I’m sorry.” Mycroft said, now acknowledging the officer in front of him as the shock began to dull. “What happened here?”

“Are you Sinclair Holmes?”

“No, I’m his eldest son." He clarified, more than ready to assert his guardianship if it meant he could get a few answers. "He and my mother are both travelling abroad right now, so I’m responsible for this estate until they come back. Their care falls under me.”

“I understand. Nobody is in trouble this time, but we did receive a call from a pedestrian about a bit of an altercation that occurred in the street. Unfortunately, John here was on the receiving end of some unwanted attention.” He said, placing a friendly hand on John’s shoulder in a sweet attempt to neutralize any embarrassment he may feel. “I think it upset his friend. Understandably, of course. I’d likely have done the same.”

“Did he touch him?” Mycroft asked, anger now replacing the fear as he turned towards John with an evaluating eye.

“Nothing too hostile, but an Alpha male in his early thirties did attempt to check for a bond bite.” The officer began. “That type of behavior is unacceptable and I issued a formal requisition for that male, but Sherlock did attempt an assault as well.”

“It wasn’t an assault." He muttered. "I just shoved him off of John.”

“I know, son. It wasn’t 'technically' foul play, but you did place your hands on him. By law, we would normally have to issue a formal warning for someone of your age and explain the implications of an assault charge, but I’m letting you off the hook this time because I think you had a right to be angry.”

“But you did not have a right to attack someone who could have easily hurt you.” Mycroft said, anger growing hot and heavy. “You are old enough now that you could have been imprisoned for this, Sherlock. Have you absolutely lost _all_ sense of yourself?”

“It’s my fault.” John said, eyes downcast and uncomfortable. “I got angry when the man tried to do…that. I engaged him. Sherlock was just defending me. But I _could’ve_ handled it.”

“Yes, you were doing a great job of shaking like a leaf.” Sherlock bit, earning a furious glare from John. A red blush was quickly running from his neck to his face, and Sherlock's eagerness to rise to John's accusation led Mycroft to believe that they had already had this argument at some point on their way home.

“You _know_ I could've handled it. You just want to compare the size of your cock with anyone who threatens you.”

“I’m sorry; was he threatening _me_? I was too busy watching you get backed into a wall to notice.”

“ _Fuck_ you.” John hissed. “You were spoiling for a fight and you know it! And if you didn’t get one from him, you’ll sure as _hell_ get one from me.”

“ _That’s enough_.” Mycroft snapped, hearing his father’s voice coming from his mouth. “Both of you to your own rooms _now_. Stay in there and do not leave those rooms for any reason until I tell you otherwise. We will discuss this later.”

When both boys merely moved past him and stormed up the stairwell, Mycroft closed his eyes in exhaustion and turned back towards the gracious police officer.

“I am so sorry.” He said. “They are not siblings and they have opposite genders. The last few months have been rough, to say the least. But we are waiting for the blond one to turn sixteen so that we can legally pursue his suppressants. When that happens, I expect they will calm down a bit and this will no longer be an issue.”

“I understand. The whole thing really was a benign encounter.” He waived with a half-smile. “I really just wanted to scare them this time around. Obviously they _can_ get into some legal trouble for being that aggressive, but I doubt a charge would stand trial in light of the fact that it was prompted by an older male harassing a minor. It ultimately would have been identified as self-defense, but I really wanted to make a point with this whole ordeal.”

“And I’m very thankful you did.” Mycroft explained. “The two of them need to be a little more afraid of the consequences.”

“Hey, I get it. I was that age, too --actually landed myself an overnight stay for doing the same thing your Sherlock did. Omegas get treated poorly, and we react –especially if we have ties to those Omegas. If I wasn’t an officer, I probably would have joined Sherlock.”

“I _am_ extremely cross with him, but I doubt I'll chastise him for defending John.” Mycroft explained. “I will just explain to him the importance of defending him in a way that won’t get him killed immediately.”

“Cheers.” He laughed, unhinging a document from the clipboard in his hands. “This is an unofficial police report of the altercation. I’ve decided not to report this or file it with the bureau because the legal guardians responsible for the boys would have to go through an extensive court process to close the case, and I don’t think it’s substantial enough to merit all that hassle. We did have both boys evaluated by a responder at the time of our arrival. John Watson was entirely cleared, and Sherlock Holmes was cleared with the exception of a bloodied nose. No broken bones, though – just expect a bit of bruising around the eyes tomorrow. If you have any more questions, you can call the main office and contact the case manager using the phone number listed on the there.”

“I cannot thank you enough.” Mycroft said, now distracted by the hazelnut color of the officer’s eyes. Although they both seemed to be roughly the same age, the officer’s hair was already running salt and pepper around the edges, but his figure didn't appear to be a day over twenty. “I am truly grateful for this, and I can assure you this won’t happen again.”

“I’ve heard that one before.” He laughed. “But if it happens again, let’s hope your parents will be abroad next time as well.”

Momentarily stunned, Mycroft simply smiled and turned away.

“Anyway—" The officer began, reaching for his keys when a female voice from his radio rattled off a series of indiscernible coordinates and commands. “I hope you have a decent rest of the day. Sorry this throws a bit of a wrench into a typical Sunday afternoon.”

“As soon as I discipline some hell-children, I’m sure it will _vastly_ improve.”

“Give them a stern look from me.” He grinned, walking back to the flashing police car. “Especially that brunette. I’m not sure he likes me very much.”

“He doesn’t like anyone, but I’ll tell him it’s specially from you.” Mycroft called. “And what is your name?”

“Gregory Lestrade.” He called back. “But you can call me Greg. And yours?”

“Mycroft Holmes.”

“Mycroft Holmes.” He repeated with a salute. “I’ll see you around, Mycroft Holmes.”

And with that, Mycroft turned and closed the front door as he watched Greg Lestrade pull out of the estate. Falling back against the door, he stopped and attempted to arrange his thoughts and feelings into some semblance of order. There was far too much to feel at that precise minute, and he decided that his first avenue of thought would be entirely dedicated to resolving the situation with Sherlock and John.

Compared to the surreal and entirely unwelcome sense of wonder and charm with meeting Officer Gregory Lestrade, addressing his criminal brothers suddenly seemed to be the preferred course of action.

Walking up the stairs, he knocked three times on John’s door and entered without preamble. Calmly, he stood against the door and watched as John lay angrily in his bed.

“Not the best reunion we’ve ever had.” Mycroft said both sternly and mercifully.

Although he wanted John to understand the severity of the situation, John had always maintained a more level-headed approach to adversity. It was one of his strongest qualities, and it was a quality that Mycroft felt would make John an excellent soldier.

Even though they were both equally in trouble this time, though, Mycroft suspected that most of the blame ultimately belonged to Sherlock.

“I’m sorry.” John said, sitting up. “I really am glad you’re home, though --even if it’s under such a shitty circumstance.”

“You’re right. It is.” Mycroft agreed, sitting on the edge of John’s bed. “But I’m not going to yell at you. I think Greg Lestrade did enough of that for the both of us. Do you want to simply start by telling me what happened?”

“It wasn’t a big deal.”

“If someone called the police, it was big enough.”

“We were on our way home and some guy walking by us checked me for a bond bite. I told him to stop, but he put his hand on my neck and sort of made me stand still so he could smell me.” John explained, mood stormy and a bit hostile even for his usually cheerful disposition. “I told him to fuck off, he got angry at me and backed me into a wall, and then Sherlock shoved him away. They got into a fight, he punched Sherlock in the face, everyone was angry, we scared people, the army was called in, the earth stopped turning, the end.”

“It was all so insignificant, wasn’t it?”

“It always is.”

“So why are you more upset at Sherlock than the man who sexually harassed you?” Averting his eyes, John bit his lip nervously and very pointedly avoided the question. “Is it because you feel that he is emasculating you?”

After a pronounced beat of silence, Mycroft understood. Checkmate.

“He never thinks I can handle anything.” John explained. “This _keeps_ happening. Anytime someone does something weird, he steps in before I can handle it myself. People are going to think I’m weak.”

Fair, Mycroft thought. He definitely had had his own experiences with that sort of thing, but he also never had a best friend; just over-responsive Alpha coworkers and acquaintances.

“Does he know it bothers you when he does that?”

“He says he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it. He says it’s like some sort of spontaneous reaction.” John replied, clearly frustrated with the validity of the explanation. “I think that’s true, but that doesn’t mean he can keep doing it. It’s not an excuse.”

“I actually agree with you.” Mycroft said, earning a disbelieving look from John. “And I’ll talk to him about it and encourage him to consider how you feel. But I think you should also consider how _you_ would feel if the reverse were true. What if a random Omega presented his or her neck to Sherlock in the middle of the street?”

“I would kindly tell them to fuck off.”

“But what if Sherlock wanted you to just ignore it?” Mycroft challenged.

“I still wouldn’t ignore it. But that's different. That doesn’t have anything to do with our genders. That kind of attention has always made him uncomfortable.”

“And when Alphas at school approach you, does that kind of attention make you uncomfortable?” Mycroft asked, smiling when John’s lips thinned into a line. “Listen, John: I do believe the Alpha gene makes him react more viscerally than he intends to, but I also think a case could be made for the fact that Sherlock knows how uncomfortable the advances make you feel, and he just doesn’t like to see people do that to you. I don’t think it’s a gene thing. I think it’s a friend thing.”

“I guess.” John shrugged, expression and tone somewhat softening. “But I still don’t like it. It makes me feel…useless.”

Ah. It was a feeling Mycroft knew well, especially in his desired field of work.

“Which is why I am going to talk to him about it.” Mycroft affirmed. “It becomes a counter-productive measure if his reactions make you just as uncomfortable as the advances. But I also expect that you will be patient with him in the meantime. If someone is ever seriously inappropriate with you, I _fully_ encourage Sherlock to come to your defense in the same way that I expect you to come to his.”

When John begrudgingly agreed, Mycroft smiled and ruffled the boy’s hair.

“Six more months.” Mycroft offered with a hopeful grin. “Six more months and this won’t be as much of a problem anymore. Can you hold on until then?”

“I don’t know.” John exhaled. “It’s been _really_ bad lately. Sometimes he locks me out of his room for days at a time, and other times he doesn’t want me to leave the house unless he can go with me. Sometimes he’s dying to pick fights with me, and other times he wants to pick fights with everyone around me. I can’t tell if he wants me to leave him alone or stay around. I think he’s having a hard time.”

“He is, John.” Mycroft confirmed softly. “Sherlock’s biology is doing just as many sharp turns as yours is. And given the fact that he’s never wanted to bond with anyone, I’m sure he is more frustrated by his actions than you are.”

“We used to have fun.” John offered insecurely, further highlighting the probable source behind most of his anger.

“I know.” Mycroft replied, feeling a small barb of sadness pierce him through at the confession. “It’s not fun right now. It’s actually _really_ miserable. I understand that. But someday, it will be fun again, Soldier John. There’s a light at the end of this six-month tunnel. You’ve just got to soldier on until you breach the end, okay?”

“So how many times over the next six months are we allowed to be brought home by the police, then?” John asked, insecurity fading away to be replaced by a more impish deviance. “I think we should both have a ‘get out of jail free’ card for the next six months.”

“If I see another policeman come to this door, I’ll tell Mum about it with a smile on my face. By the time she gets through with you two, you’ll be _wishing_ you were in jail for twenty to life.”

“I bet you’d change your mind if Officer Lestrade was the one to come to the door every time.”

“I—" He tried, running scarlet as the words dissolved right from his mouth and brain. “I beg your pardon?”

“Don’t be such a prude, Mycroft. I saw the look on your face when he showed up.” John chided. “You also just called him ‘Greg' and you've known him for eight seconds. Must be getting serious, then. Should we expect a knotting ceremony anytime soon?”

Mouth gaping in shock, Mycroft reached over and smacked John half-heartedly on the mouth.

“How do you know what a knotting ceremony is!?”

“I’m fifteen.” John grinned. “How would I _not_ know what a knotting ceremony is?”

“I didn’t know what a knotting ceremony was until I was eighteen!”

“Don’t blame me.” John laughed, holding his hands in a sign of surrender. “Sherlock told me two years ago. There was a famous murder he was studying that happened during a knotting ceremony. At least they died happy, yeah?”

“You’re _disgusting_. Both of you.”

“You didn’t say no, though...”

“Of _course_ I wouldn’t participate in a knotting ceremony! –with Greg or _any_ Alpha, for that matter.”

“You mean Officer Lestrade.” John clarified, an evil glint almost shimmering in his eyes.

“I’m leaving.” Mycroft announced firmly, standing to his feet and walking towards the door when he realized he had been bested by the blond cretin. “You’re wretched and I will have no further dealings with you.”

“Mycroft?”

“Ugh. What, John?” He asked, throwing his head back in dread.

Pulling the duvet aside, John stepped out of bed, walked over to Mycroft, and enveloped the elder Holmes in a quick but sincere embrace. Returning the hug, Mycroft allowed himself to cherish a short moment of affection before John entirely aborted the sentiment and walked back to his bed.

Closing the door, Mycroft mentally prepared for the next task at hand:

Sherlock.


End file.
